I was always looked down at home, because of my ‘getting-lost-in-books’ reading habit. I remember amma doing test dose at neighbours’ places, where I would be immersed in some book i picked up. She will ask the neighbour aunty to call my name or ask me about something, which I will neither hear nor reply, thus proving to aunty, how irresponsible I was at times when amma needed me to do something, only because I had this book in hand. I do not remember Deepthu anywhere in the scene, and this one so vividly framed in my memory happened at Ganga aunty’s place when we were at Mamkoottam. So I am guessing she must have been left to sleep peacefully in the house – being so small, and with Rama aunty there to look after her, myself, not more than 8 years at that time. I would recognize the drama unveiling behind the sofa I was sitting on, when I get distracted by some loud noise, of either amma calling my name in a yell, or the sound of laughter that must have resulted from everyone’s reaction to my strange devotion to comic books. I would then feel so awkward, and would get up and give a feeble smile to all, leave the book and join the mainstream activity or conversation.
Thus, I consciously cultivated an awareness for the surroundings whenever I was reading a book. Sometimes I thought it just killed the fun in reading. But it took a long time to develop that. Coz, books were a reprieve for me from the outer world, which back then, at times looked blank and uninteresting. If books make you an introvert, I had all chances of growing up into just that, but strangely enough, I grew up to become the best chatter box anyone could ever find. I loved the sunny, bright and colourful characters more than the melancholic one.
The books used to beckon me from the shelves. I got sheer pleasure just from the thought of me immersed in those books all day long and getting to know the characters more. I imagined myself as a writer, who would someday write books like these, which will come in beautiful and elegant bindings, with penguin for a publisher may be, which would someday line the shelves of a carefully collected library of some book lover. I fascinated more about Penguin books, cos they stood in a neat queue in my book shelf, either when I arranged the Bernad Shaws or the Somerset Maughams or because their symbol stood out the most among publishers. There were strange dilemmas that I had somedays. I could not choose as to which writer I want to become like, from all the people in the shelf. In English I decided to choose between Maugham, Pearl S. Buck and R. K. Narayanan. In Malayalam my choices were mostly M.T. Vasudevan Nair or Pottakkadu. I toyed with Madhavikutty also for a while, but her daring writing in “Ente Katha” gave me jitters, and I decided against it. I knew I could never even think of writing sarcasm like Basheer or Sanjayan did. Those were not just my forte. Or I tried hard at imaginig situations the way they did, and to my surprise I did have an innate nature in me in finding humour in life’s simplest things, but, I just couldn’t understand how or when I will ever learn to put them into words. And that was one of the genre I wanted to try the most, satire. I could never be that poet or writer who would use the perfect alliterations, similies and metaphors to commit a theme to paper. I was never that good.
When I first got the internet, that was what I searched more about – authors. I tried picturing what their day will be like, wondering whether they will be writing all day long or just some time in between. Some stories about the writer – people’s solitary life bothered me. Some said, that they liked to live a life of their own, and never came out into the real world. And I got scared at this. I loved the colours of the world, the people, friends, and my sister and achan amma. There was an article, which I read, which talks about all the background works behind a book. It talked about how one author went in search for a character. I just sat and thought about it and the more and more I thought, it was turning out to be even more alluring. First thing, u get to travel, which was one of number one things in my bucket list, and second, even more than meeting your ‘wanted protagonist’, you will get to see more life and people, which thrilled me. It was just like what I read about the directors going in search for his equal – to – the image – in his mind type of hero or heroine. Amazing, I thought of that journey, as a search for your own story itself, for the soul of your story. I had always been a fan of travelling, though I had not travelled much myself. But the memories of every weekend journeys to Alleppey, had a lot of fun and happiness in it.
Thinking back, we were like Gypsies back then, always travelling, except that the routes were the same, the names of all the places etched forever firmly in my mind. But the people – the fellow travelers were different. Me and my sis, used to remember jokes and used to tell it to the people who travelled with us in train, giving them a hearty laugh. But she missed maybe the early parts of the journey, which we did in buses, before switching over to trains. Those parts had a special quality about them, the rustic buses, the dusty routes of the crowded city roads we passed by, the view of the streetside shops, the different houses with its courtyards and beautiful gardens that I loved to look at from the raised view of the bus windows, and much more such sweet sights. I still remember some of the friends we made, who told me stories of all sorts. There was this girl, whose house was on one side of the canal, and she had to take a boat to reach there. Wow, I was so thrilled and she promised to take me there. But ofcourse, I never met her again, and then I grew up and I forgot. There were these bus stations that stood alone in the middle of nowhere, just a big ground but no buses parked, standing there sadly like a poor but naughty kid denied his fair share of chocolates. There were also others like a chirpy one, where me and dad used to get down for a round of quick roaming about and also to make me go to the loo. Such places had lots of shops with umpteen amazing items, out of which dad always brought me chocolates and fruity. I always preferred bus journeys to trains as a kid, coz it meant more sight seeing in terms of the towns, the roads and people, though my parents would any day prefer the train. And I totally fell in love with the wind then, blowing so relentlessly on my face, making me beam with happiness, looking out from the window seat. I thought, this was the best.
And I imagined I will be travelling a lot if I become a writer – well, I needed stories, dint I ? And again, I dwelled on the lives of writers and their follies, wondering if they had any social life and all those fun times. But none of these reflections ever came to be of any use, let alone significant, as I suspected long ago, I had not just the writer’s block ( ?!, writer’s ? for me ?! ), at making a line –but also, the famous defects of the lazyness, the impotent imagination, the sheer dearth of words and what all and what not! And one day, thus, I concluded, writing, is not for me, and even the diary entries were turning out to be boring, repetitive, and merely documentative. Words I thought, had to come out in a gush, like a flowing river. For me, it came out like water dripping from a wasted tap, a broken one. At times they spurted out relentlessly, that you would think you will be swept off in that bountiful flow, in its sheer force, that it would never stop. You are thus at the height of your imagination, ready to write them all down, and then there is a burp, and a sudden block, and then it stops. Or may be, there will be a final belch or two, and you are done with. They have ceased coming. And you feel, helpless. Your ideas still hanging in midair, or thrown in the violent sea, swimming in alarm and trying to float about, but no vessel on its way to save them and give them life.
Thus I went in hibernation. I only wrote diaries and nothing else. It was then that I stumbled into this thing called blog. I was amazed. A net space where you could put your stuff. A personal web space, to write. Like an abandoned field, fertile enough for those unwanted windswept spores, that wandered around, looking for a place to flourish. And the best part was that, you could choose to either show people. You dint have to tell them. They dint need to know. But they could always find out too. Up to them, or your luck. And you will still get random readership if someone stumbles into your blog.
I fell in and out of love with people who checked my blog. Someone who said some random thing about one word i wrote. I adored them. They were my world. My meaning for existence. When I see people in and around me, publicising their articles, I get jealous. Of the courage. Of their belief in self. Or in their words. Something I lacked. Something I yearned to develop. The quintessential me was always there, lurking in the dark, always doubting the strength of my own words. Or at other times, believing in them much to stand any criticism. I wrote however, once in a blue moon, hoping to write more, only hoping for ever and always.
And if you, random reader, stumbled upon me today, you can forgive me for being disorderly in my thoughts, i'm still learning it, the art of writing it all. Penning down all my fantasies, my strange and funny dreams in the same sensuous way i see them. To tell you them in such a way, that you would feel the tickling sensation yourself, when you live that dream with me. So that, when i talk about butterflies, you will feel their wings on your skin. One day, i'll be there, until then, have belief in me, the way i have found faith now.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Thursday, January 5, 2012
The unbuilt tombstones
Tombstones - Erected over the grave, that which preserves the memory of the deceased. But no tombstone is being made here, today. The loath, the detest, is too hard to fathom, to forgive. People here are about and moving. All around me, movement, hasty movement, that I shift my head from this side to that, to be aware. People, my guardian angels, move about, setting things right. Cutting down some strands. Tugging at certain loose ends. Tightening some others. Purging off the rest.
And then, they set to work - real work. Ascertaining that no tombstones are made. That no eulogies are sung. That a memory is being destroyed. In a vain hope to secure me inside a bastion of solace. Checking and rechecking that nothing is left, not even the traces. Not even the ashes to cry over. And I look on, helpless. I had indeed seen the end, before it began. But I had not seen it coming this way. Nor did I expect this deletion. It came abruptly, without knowing, all of a sudden, an emptiness scaring me. And I get crippled along with these little things that are destructed. A part of me taken and send away. Numbed, I simply hang on, by the side.
Your angels - the only other players in the game - acting as deleters. I wish I could delete too, do it myself, just like pressing a button. Twang. Gone, forever. Shift + Del , may be? A photo gone from the wall. A picture card presented, gone. One b'day clue, from all the rest, gone. Precious memories captured, photos, gone from my PC. Into oblivion. Into a dark abyss. Thrown with all mighty force, by the precious hearts that caress mine.
Should I have cared? Should i have worried? Did i want to cherish, and keep safe? Did i even have to notice? No. But mind, is a terrible player. It defeats you, when you are least concerned, when you loose the hold. It takes a jump, in a swift stroke and looks back. And you lose yourself. Is my angst unjustified? Am I being senseless? Did I not deserve the comfort of a talisman?
And I realise, with searing pain, that blood gashes out in a stream from the dreadful wound. At the most uncalled for moments. And i think, I wanted them all. To caress. Pixels of a past that existed. Resting now in a morgue. Sent to the place that was worthy of them ? But, here waits for me, the time that is gone, now nothing more than a strange eternity of nothingness. I stare. I squint hard. But there is nothing to see. Nothing to be felt. So I wish ; Before giving me the cure, before erasing my colour palettes, I wish they had asked me. Once. Only one time, before tampering with them. They were mine - my mind and soul, wholly mine. Memory of a life that could have been. A time that deep inside, even for the most diminutive part, I, knowingly or unknowingly cherished. And now, I am glassy eyed, staring blankly, seeing nothing. I have just been obliviated.
Then again, listening to the reflections of my ambivalent mind, I get undecided. When a minute's agony is turned into spite at the very next,I wonder, can it be cured by removing a handful of reminiscence. What if I needed them to be strong? Or was it, more unasked for omissions that I yearned for to recover? Which ever way it be, there is a reprieve, of what still persists. The thin strands of memoirs that intricately wove around my brain cells. I still have them. If I needed them to relish. Or may be I would want them to perish. And then, again I have my angels to look upto, to do it for me. Sweetly and swiftly.
May be I need a escapade. A merry, cheerful adventure. A funny thing to do. An end to wait for. Desire. Hope. May be erasing was good. And that, Only time will prove.
And then, they set to work - real work. Ascertaining that no tombstones are made. That no eulogies are sung. That a memory is being destroyed. In a vain hope to secure me inside a bastion of solace. Checking and rechecking that nothing is left, not even the traces. Not even the ashes to cry over. And I look on, helpless. I had indeed seen the end, before it began. But I had not seen it coming this way. Nor did I expect this deletion. It came abruptly, without knowing, all of a sudden, an emptiness scaring me. And I get crippled along with these little things that are destructed. A part of me taken and send away. Numbed, I simply hang on, by the side.
Your angels - the only other players in the game - acting as deleters. I wish I could delete too, do it myself, just like pressing a button. Twang. Gone, forever. Shift + Del , may be? A photo gone from the wall. A picture card presented, gone. One b'day clue, from all the rest, gone. Precious memories captured, photos, gone from my PC. Into oblivion. Into a dark abyss. Thrown with all mighty force, by the precious hearts that caress mine.
Should I have cared? Should i have worried? Did i want to cherish, and keep safe? Did i even have to notice? No. But mind, is a terrible player. It defeats you, when you are least concerned, when you loose the hold. It takes a jump, in a swift stroke and looks back. And you lose yourself. Is my angst unjustified? Am I being senseless? Did I not deserve the comfort of a talisman?
And I realise, with searing pain, that blood gashes out in a stream from the dreadful wound. At the most uncalled for moments. And i think, I wanted them all. To caress. Pixels of a past that existed. Resting now in a morgue. Sent to the place that was worthy of them ? But, here waits for me, the time that is gone, now nothing more than a strange eternity of nothingness. I stare. I squint hard. But there is nothing to see. Nothing to be felt. So I wish ; Before giving me the cure, before erasing my colour palettes, I wish they had asked me. Once. Only one time, before tampering with them. They were mine - my mind and soul, wholly mine. Memory of a life that could have been. A time that deep inside, even for the most diminutive part, I, knowingly or unknowingly cherished. And now, I am glassy eyed, staring blankly, seeing nothing. I have just been obliviated.
Then again, listening to the reflections of my ambivalent mind, I get undecided. When a minute's agony is turned into spite at the very next,I wonder, can it be cured by removing a handful of reminiscence. What if I needed them to be strong? Or was it, more unasked for omissions that I yearned for to recover? Which ever way it be, there is a reprieve, of what still persists. The thin strands of memoirs that intricately wove around my brain cells. I still have them. If I needed them to relish. Or may be I would want them to perish. And then, again I have my angels to look upto, to do it for me. Sweetly and swiftly.
May be I need a escapade. A merry, cheerful adventure. A funny thing to do. An end to wait for. Desire. Hope. May be erasing was good. And that, Only time will prove.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
bliss, in the land of far far away!
Bliss.
Sitting somewhere,anywhere, with no one to watch over, or even check on you. The naked loneliness, nothing to beat that.
To realise after a couple of solid hours that you have been at your best with yourself, and to be aware of the darkness looming around you. The trees coming at you, from all sides, their branches looking murderous at your daring to be in their midst, at this wee hour, when they ought to be just with themselves. You have tresspassed. But they draw back, your nonchalance troubles them. You got other things in your mind. You are in one dark corner of the big campus. Even the SIS guards did not know about the you lurking in the darkness! And the wi-fi advantage, yes, you are not totally alone – you have the internet world and specifically the youtube with you. And still playing the favourite song of the day, to somehow vent out the angst of the day, and just type away something, some random non – sense.
Yes, I am here, doing what some might call crazyness. Wandering, alone, but relishing in the lone time. Okay, I dint get the nirwana, but I dint go seeking that as well. I went seeking silence, where there will be no more pointing fingers, no more accusations, no more strange demands. Just a fragile mind, a needless worry, and some deep rooted gashes of pain. A time to cry out to the world that you are tired and weary of its strange fallacies. To decide its time to come out of the veil. Such moments of retrospection, that gives you relief and reprieve. I went in search for that.
And you get your moments, of laugh and lament. To be shooed away ( :( ) by the SIS guards because you decided to visit the rooftop of a building, which may well be the favourite suicide spot (?!) of students. But, hey, i came to live, not die! Laugh! And which is why, standing there, looking at the breathtaking beauty of the bougainvillea and trees happily surrounding the buildings, savouring in the comfort and the promise this sight offered me, happiness filled me, inspite of the crippling darkness inside. Clearly I am unhappy. I am angry at the world, for being unlike me, for getting the better side of the toss, for having a hope, and a future. Lament! But here, life gets the better off me. I go down the stairs, looking for another place, for a silent solace for the yelling mind. And i get it.
My hopes were indeed bursting at the seams. Sometimes disappearing. At others, taking an entirely new face that frightened me. The blemishes of a saddened mind. The scintillations for a better future tempting me. If only i had the courage. To cross the bridge. Take the u-turn. Courage, I realise, is all that matters. And thus, I go back. To where i belong. The world of people, that welcomes me back, with extended arms.
PS : Act of random crazyness exist. Life is all about the madness in you.
Sitting somewhere,anywhere, with no one to watch over, or even check on you. The naked loneliness, nothing to beat that.
To realise after a couple of solid hours that you have been at your best with yourself, and to be aware of the darkness looming around you. The trees coming at you, from all sides, their branches looking murderous at your daring to be in their midst, at this wee hour, when they ought to be just with themselves. You have tresspassed. But they draw back, your nonchalance troubles them. You got other things in your mind. You are in one dark corner of the big campus. Even the SIS guards did not know about the you lurking in the darkness! And the wi-fi advantage, yes, you are not totally alone – you have the internet world and specifically the youtube with you. And still playing the favourite song of the day, to somehow vent out the angst of the day, and just type away something, some random non – sense.
Yes, I am here, doing what some might call crazyness. Wandering, alone, but relishing in the lone time. Okay, I dint get the nirwana, but I dint go seeking that as well. I went seeking silence, where there will be no more pointing fingers, no more accusations, no more strange demands. Just a fragile mind, a needless worry, and some deep rooted gashes of pain. A time to cry out to the world that you are tired and weary of its strange fallacies. To decide its time to come out of the veil. Such moments of retrospection, that gives you relief and reprieve. I went in search for that.
And you get your moments, of laugh and lament. To be shooed away ( :( ) by the SIS guards because you decided to visit the rooftop of a building, which may well be the favourite suicide spot (?!) of students. But, hey, i came to live, not die! Laugh! And which is why, standing there, looking at the breathtaking beauty of the bougainvillea and trees happily surrounding the buildings, savouring in the comfort and the promise this sight offered me, happiness filled me, inspite of the crippling darkness inside. Clearly I am unhappy. I am angry at the world, for being unlike me, for getting the better side of the toss, for having a hope, and a future. Lament! But here, life gets the better off me. I go down the stairs, looking for another place, for a silent solace for the yelling mind. And i get it.
My hopes were indeed bursting at the seams. Sometimes disappearing. At others, taking an entirely new face that frightened me. The blemishes of a saddened mind. The scintillations for a better future tempting me. If only i had the courage. To cross the bridge. Take the u-turn. Courage, I realise, is all that matters. And thus, I go back. To where i belong. The world of people, that welcomes me back, with extended arms.
PS : Act of random crazyness exist. Life is all about the madness in you.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
the fairy tale love...
i am this fairy tale princess, stuck inside a prison... My prince is searching outside. but he cant find the door... and i cant find d door too...and we are miles apart...of values, of ideals, of morals.but still he is my prince..or is he? y did we meet..to feel d pain.. to know d thorn, to hear the thunder..
but the butterflies in my stomach were true..d touch was warm and true..d brush of his lips against my skin was true..d feel of his fingers were true..but only d love..only tat..
i used to feel it is der..tat it existed der, his love for me, somthing tat i could touch, take in my hands and see...a white, pearl like thing, so beautiful..but it melts away the next moment..so i wanted to catch it, caress it..hold it...feel it..nd safekeep it..but tomorrow to think he wont be der..to find the void...to see the bubble bursting..
heart aches..pain..blood..wound..tears..no, not tears..weakness is not wat is needed now..strength..i want strength..
i wanted to be beautiful, silk skinned, golden haired..he was handsome, i loved to look into his eyes, those eyes wid beautiful eyelashes..those beautiful things which curled around his dark brown eyes..everything, everything was bright and blue..except, except the truth of the love..how will i know, how will i be sure? the heart that i so wanted to caress, i wanted to open it up and see, like a cruel lioness who would cut the skin and suck the blood out..but only, only to know..that this love was true, that it was written, engraved somewhere deep in his heart...to know that he wished to be mine...only for that..
but does anything pains more than that? the love, unsaid, only felt? souveniers weren't needed..but, love, for that, i wanted his word..only the word...and the truth..
but the butterflies in my stomach were true..d touch was warm and true..d brush of his lips against my skin was true..d feel of his fingers were true..but only d love..only tat..
i used to feel it is der..tat it existed der, his love for me, somthing tat i could touch, take in my hands and see...a white, pearl like thing, so beautiful..but it melts away the next moment..so i wanted to catch it, caress it..hold it...feel it..nd safekeep it..but tomorrow to think he wont be der..to find the void...to see the bubble bursting..
heart aches..pain..blood..wound..tears..no, not tears..weakness is not wat is needed now..strength..i want strength..
i wanted to be beautiful, silk skinned, golden haired..he was handsome, i loved to look into his eyes, those eyes wid beautiful eyelashes..those beautiful things which curled around his dark brown eyes..everything, everything was bright and blue..except, except the truth of the love..how will i know, how will i be sure? the heart that i so wanted to caress, i wanted to open it up and see, like a cruel lioness who would cut the skin and suck the blood out..but only, only to know..that this love was true, that it was written, engraved somewhere deep in his heart...to know that he wished to be mine...only for that..
but does anything pains more than that? the love, unsaid, only felt? souveniers weren't needed..but, love, for that, i wanted his word..only the word...and the truth..
Monday, February 28, 2011
My chest of fragrances...
I have a remembrance chest of fragrances. A beautiful l'l thingummie ,where i keep my memories, as having been related to fragrances, scents, aromas and every l'l thing of that kind.Like a tiny piece of mirror that reflects a part of you, my tiny bits of cherished memories, that i have collected over the years, right from my 'Tiny ToTs' days, till now. It was always there, pushed to the back of my mind, where i had kept it unhidden, but also unexplored, for such a long time. Today,when i hugged my friend telling her that she reminds me of my sister when she was a baby, coz of her new Gohnson's Baby Lotion, she laughed at me saying the scent was never that strong. But it was for me,and i bet there are a lot of people who can tell by the scent of things, or im sure there will be atleast one more person walking this earth, like me, who has got scents and memories so closely intertwined. But, then, i had read Anita Nair. She talks about how she cherished memories with fragrances in her book "Goodnight and Godbless", which was for a long time, my favourite bed time story book.
During my baby days, i believe it was the scent of my mother.I must have recognised her presence by that. But the first one tat i registered ever since i started having and preserving memories, is that of the 'agarbhati' that lingered in the pooja room by the time i get up and come out of my bed. And then,the smell of kitchen, the first morning scents of tea brewing and rice being made, that of ghee when amma made those special ghee roasts. My taste buds get tickled and excited with the memories of delicacies, of those delicious smells that emanated from amma's and ammumma's superb kitchen.
In a Pearl S Buck story, a woman remembers the love between her parents, while she is nursing her completely bedridden father, after her mother's death. There is a memory that she catches on as she watches her father murmering her mother's name in his sleep. Once when she was a kid, she came into her parents' bedroom to see her mom sitting on d bed, drooping and covering her face with a cloth. For a moment she thought her mom was crying, but then, her mom looked up, and pulled her close and hugged her. And when asked what she was doing, her mom said, that she was remembering the scent of her father, that cloth was her dad's jacket. Her dad had gone on war then. The daughter remembers how at that moment it felt so strange to her, so difficult, to understand her mom's emotion, which, now being a married woman herself, she can perfectly comprehend. And i was amazed at the beauty of that scene. The thought that then goes through the daughter's mind, who at present lives a marriage of convenience, is that, she could never have done the same with her husband's cloth. She realises that she never cherished the memory of his scent. That was the beauty of the concept. It was plain and simple. The scent of her husband, that her mother was trying to frame in her mind, reveals the intensity of love that they both shared. And the way the daughter thinks about how she can never do it, shows the lack of it in her marriage. Buck uses beautifully that powerful and intricate link scents hold to our emotions..
That was almost the same way i put fragrances in my remembrance chest. The scent of Cuticura powder which, twelve years down the line,still takes me back to my grand dad's room where i sat next to him listening to his stories with happiness and wonder in my eyes ..the Santoor soap, the neelibringadhi hair oil and the guruvayoor chandanam which made up for me, the scent of my grandma, then the scent of my mother, and my sister, starting from her baby days of gohnson's baby powder to her recent deoderent, my dad and his variety of perfumes each of which I recognise as his, which gives me a sense of being safe when I am near him,the scent of my close friends, which i recognise as they stay around me. The smell of popcorn that reminds me of the days of bunking and movie watching with dem. The scent of dosa and hot and spicy kadala curry at a Kayamkulam railway platform outlet, which reminds me of childhood days spent with every weekends, friday evenings and sunday nights in train travelling to and from on our visit to grand parents. And so many and so many.
Scents, powerful, intricate and capable of holding fond memories.I have got a chest full of them. And I thank God, for being able to hold on to them, thus capable of summoning memories and being at peace, knowing that life is all around me, behind, and forward, still loud and alive, thrilling and waiting to be explored.
During my baby days, i believe it was the scent of my mother.I must have recognised her presence by that. But the first one tat i registered ever since i started having and preserving memories, is that of the 'agarbhati' that lingered in the pooja room by the time i get up and come out of my bed. And then,the smell of kitchen, the first morning scents of tea brewing and rice being made, that of ghee when amma made those special ghee roasts. My taste buds get tickled and excited with the memories of delicacies, of those delicious smells that emanated from amma's and ammumma's superb kitchen.
In a Pearl S Buck story, a woman remembers the love between her parents, while she is nursing her completely bedridden father, after her mother's death. There is a memory that she catches on as she watches her father murmering her mother's name in his sleep. Once when she was a kid, she came into her parents' bedroom to see her mom sitting on d bed, drooping and covering her face with a cloth. For a moment she thought her mom was crying, but then, her mom looked up, and pulled her close and hugged her. And when asked what she was doing, her mom said, that she was remembering the scent of her father, that cloth was her dad's jacket. Her dad had gone on war then. The daughter remembers how at that moment it felt so strange to her, so difficult, to understand her mom's emotion, which, now being a married woman herself, she can perfectly comprehend. And i was amazed at the beauty of that scene. The thought that then goes through the daughter's mind, who at present lives a marriage of convenience, is that, she could never have done the same with her husband's cloth. She realises that she never cherished the memory of his scent. That was the beauty of the concept. It was plain and simple. The scent of her husband, that her mother was trying to frame in her mind, reveals the intensity of love that they both shared. And the way the daughter thinks about how she can never do it, shows the lack of it in her marriage. Buck uses beautifully that powerful and intricate link scents hold to our emotions..
That was almost the same way i put fragrances in my remembrance chest. The scent of Cuticura powder which, twelve years down the line,still takes me back to my grand dad's room where i sat next to him listening to his stories with happiness and wonder in my eyes ..the Santoor soap, the neelibringadhi hair oil and the guruvayoor chandanam which made up for me, the scent of my grandma, then the scent of my mother, and my sister, starting from her baby days of gohnson's baby powder to her recent deoderent, my dad and his variety of perfumes each of which I recognise as his, which gives me a sense of being safe when I am near him,the scent of my close friends, which i recognise as they stay around me. The smell of popcorn that reminds me of the days of bunking and movie watching with dem. The scent of dosa and hot and spicy kadala curry at a Kayamkulam railway platform outlet, which reminds me of childhood days spent with every weekends, friday evenings and sunday nights in train travelling to and from on our visit to grand parents. And so many and so many.
Scents, powerful, intricate and capable of holding fond memories.I have got a chest full of them. And I thank God, for being able to hold on to them, thus capable of summoning memories and being at peace, knowing that life is all around me, behind, and forward, still loud and alive, thrilling and waiting to be explored.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
"Love is in the air..."
love is in the air..
There is a line that Jamie says in 'A walk to remember', .."its like the wind, i cant see it..but i feel it..i feel wonder and beauty, joy, love..its everything.." It potrays one of the most beautiful romance that i have watched in a movie..and Jamie,a girl like her, with her simple 1st wish , to marry in the church where her mother married..its all so beautifully constructed..i know im talking like im giving a movie review..but, suddenly i cant help remembering it..and the beautiful song in it that i love..
"It's gonna be me baby
It's gonna be good baby
Time I have been patient for so long
How can I pretend to be so strong?
Who can I choose baby?
Feeling its true baby
If I’m asking you to hold me tight
then it’s gonna be all night
It’s gonna be Love
It’s gonna be great
It’s gonna be more then I can take
It’s gonna be free
It’s gonna be real
It’s gonna change everything I feel
It’s gonna be sad
It’s gonna be true
It’s gonna be me baby
It’s gonna be you baby
It’s gonna be...Its gonna be Love
Time can not rest our love to be fool
How can you pretend to be so cruel?
Maybe it’s me baby
Maybe it’s you baby
Maybe it’s everything we’ve been dreaming of
We waited long enough
Its gonna be Love
It’s gonna be great
It’s gonna be more then I can take
It’s gonna be free
It’s gonna be real
It’s gonna change everything I feel
It’s gonna be sad
It’s gonna be true
It’s gonna be your the one to do
It’s gonna be me baby
It’s gonna be you baby
The sooner you let two hearts beat together
The sooner you know this love is forever
It’s gonna be love
Love needs time now or never
Its gonna be love
You really got to believe
it’s gonna be strong enough
Its gonna be Love
It’s gonna be great
It’s gonna be more then I can take
It’s gonna be free
It’s gonna be real
It’s gonna change everything I feel
It’s gonna be sad
It’s gonna be true
It’s gonna be your the one to do
It’s gonna be hard
It’s gonna be stuff
It’s gonna be more then just enough
It’s gonna be LOVE
It’s gonna be Love
It’s gonna be sad
It’s gonna be true
It’s gonna be me baby
It’s gonna be you baby
It’s gonna be me baby
It’s gonna be you
It’s gonna be real
It’s gonna be love
by Mandy Morre and Wow..u gotta listen and see how beautifully its sung too..
okay, this is what happened. A young friend here today told us about his love. It was funny and great to see him talking about her.So young and in love.The way he is trying to find her, saying she is the only one. And to see another one madly in love, truly and madly in love...and to come back to my room and watch 'a walk to remember'...
There was this time when my heart never failed to miss a beat, when this guy walked past..and i sank in that..and it passed..then there was this another one,who came along, and my heart missed a beat again...but those were what you talked and laughed with your frens about, "silly pup crushes"...but the real one, i wonder, how will it be..when i will never recover that missed heart beat..i guess i will have to wait, for the real bug to bite..
There is a line that Jamie says in 'A walk to remember', .."its like the wind, i cant see it..but i feel it..i feel wonder and beauty, joy, love..its everything.." It potrays one of the most beautiful romance that i have watched in a movie..and Jamie,a girl like her, with her simple 1st wish , to marry in the church where her mother married..its all so beautifully constructed..i know im talking like im giving a movie review..but, suddenly i cant help remembering it..and the beautiful song in it that i love..
"It's gonna be me baby
It's gonna be good baby
Time I have been patient for so long
How can I pretend to be so strong?
Who can I choose baby?
Feeling its true baby
If I’m asking you to hold me tight
then it’s gonna be all night
It’s gonna be Love
It’s gonna be great
It’s gonna be more then I can take
It’s gonna be free
It’s gonna be real
It’s gonna change everything I feel
It’s gonna be sad
It’s gonna be true
It’s gonna be me baby
It’s gonna be you baby
It’s gonna be...Its gonna be Love
Time can not rest our love to be fool
How can you pretend to be so cruel?
Maybe it’s me baby
Maybe it’s you baby
Maybe it’s everything we’ve been dreaming of
We waited long enough
Its gonna be Love
It’s gonna be great
It’s gonna be more then I can take
It’s gonna be free
It’s gonna be real
It’s gonna change everything I feel
It’s gonna be sad
It’s gonna be true
It’s gonna be your the one to do
It’s gonna be me baby
It’s gonna be you baby
The sooner you let two hearts beat together
The sooner you know this love is forever
It’s gonna be love
Love needs time now or never
Its gonna be love
You really got to believe
it’s gonna be strong enough
Its gonna be Love
It’s gonna be great
It’s gonna be more then I can take
It’s gonna be free
It’s gonna be real
It’s gonna change everything I feel
It’s gonna be sad
It’s gonna be true
It’s gonna be your the one to do
It’s gonna be hard
It’s gonna be stuff
It’s gonna be more then just enough
It’s gonna be LOVE
It’s gonna be Love
It’s gonna be sad
It’s gonna be true
It’s gonna be me baby
It’s gonna be you baby
It’s gonna be me baby
It’s gonna be you
It’s gonna be real
It’s gonna be love
by Mandy Morre and Wow..u gotta listen and see how beautifully its sung too..
okay, this is what happened. A young friend here today told us about his love. It was funny and great to see him talking about her.So young and in love.The way he is trying to find her, saying she is the only one. And to see another one madly in love, truly and madly in love...and to come back to my room and watch 'a walk to remember'...
There was this time when my heart never failed to miss a beat, when this guy walked past..and i sank in that..and it passed..then there was this another one,who came along, and my heart missed a beat again...but those were what you talked and laughed with your frens about, "silly pup crushes"...but the real one, i wonder, how will it be..when i will never recover that missed heart beat..i guess i will have to wait, for the real bug to bite..
Friday, November 27, 2009
Matrimony
A very close friend of mine,who is a Muslim,always worries about going into higher studies, coz , she says if she doesnt find her way soon, she is afraid that she'll be hurried into marrying someone and starting a family.Kudos to her attitude for that.The less urgent spirit of the rest of us haven't gotten us into taking the impending entrance test that serious yet.A week ago, I met my classmate, while we both were getting photocopies for the next day's university exam. She gave me a near heart-attack by declaring that her marriage has been fixed. She also gave me an on-the-spot invitation to her engagement next week. My first instinct thought was to ask, "How could do they do this to you??!!" ( I meant her parents), followed by a more sympathising (I just cudn't empathise!) "Im so sorry for you". From there i could've gone on like, "Cant you do anything about it?", or a "Who is this moron robbing you of all the happiness of your carefree days.." etc on and on. But I was stupid. And very charactersitically so! Because, I saw immediately that she was clearly happy. And then i thought about perspective. May be, it was like how they said about "the world appearing yellow to someone who looks on through a yellow glass paper"!!
My neighbour has a young daughter of around 3 years. She is such a l'l angel and all of us love her with much affection. She was recenlty taken to a nursery where , when she apparently 'misbehaved' ( read refusing to eat food properly and sleep when they instruct her to), the person who runs the nursery said, "Shouldn't she be l'l better behaved, after all she should go into another home when the time comes"!!. After that, her parents never send her there. This little piece caused a lot of laughter when the rest of us heard- she, after all, was a girl of three !!
When i was little, i used to swear to amma that i will not marry.I used to tell her, I 'll live with her, 'Happily ever after'. Amused, she would say, "Okay, that would be fun."
A while back, when my friend told me about his 'true love', i kept discussing with another friend about our own respective ideas of 'Mr.Right'. It was very amusing and even straining, because when you think, you have to think very hard to list all the qualities that ur "Mr.Right" will have! Coz, i had never really ruled out the possibility, but was skeptical coz, i think, sometimes, life offers only a few chances of getting to meet that one person. It would've been convenient if there really was a solution of something like "imprinting" (if u have read all of the twilight saga, you would know) as it saves a lot of hardships and troubles!
The first time my mother met my father, it was, what do you call when u see each others photographs first? "A photographic meet"?? It was just that. And then they meet at the engagement and everything was fixed by the elders. Ofcourse, the era being a little more progressed than the oldest, both of them got their say of 'yes or no' and which place you want to get married, which way etc etc. I marvel at my mother's courage back then. I always failed to see if at all any courage or sacrifice was made necessary on my father's part. It was she who had to transplant her life from her home to his. I picture her formulating plans in mind about how best to get in good terms with each of my father's family members, and his was a joint family family- so much more people to live with. Or maybe, it dint work that way. She might have never had to think it through, plan it. Things might have just fallen in place.She might have always been best friends with my father's people, now hers too, from the very beginning, as she is now. I 'll never know. And thus i marvel at the courage of my mother, and my grandmother and my great grandmother and generations of women before them, who makes part of my blood and flesh. But the very institution of marriage continues to make me wonder..and feel terrorised, may be..
There may not be any reason why i should be so worried. May be it is my concern about my friend. I wish her good luck, and a very happy life. And I do see that my mother never really had any damage by marrying my father. Except her occasional taunts about my father, which she makes in the form of complaints, about how she never really got a lot of choice coz she agreed to the first person who came to meet her, my father. And that always brings about a quiet smile in my dad's face, which is really handsome to look at. And then i think that it must have been an easy choice for her. Coz my dad was very handsome then,and he is still, even with his fair share of grey hair (which he refuses to dye , which i like). He had brilliant educational qualification and family. So, may be it was easy for her, even with all the risk involved..Or may be im being unnecessarily crazy. I 'll never know. Or maybe i will find out some day. But i hope i 'll meet my Mr.Right on that way!!
My neighbour has a young daughter of around 3 years. She is such a l'l angel and all of us love her with much affection. She was recenlty taken to a nursery where , when she apparently 'misbehaved' ( read refusing to eat food properly and sleep when they instruct her to), the person who runs the nursery said, "Shouldn't she be l'l better behaved, after all she should go into another home when the time comes"!!. After that, her parents never send her there. This little piece caused a lot of laughter when the rest of us heard- she, after all, was a girl of three !!
When i was little, i used to swear to amma that i will not marry.I used to tell her, I 'll live with her, 'Happily ever after'. Amused, she would say, "Okay, that would be fun."
A while back, when my friend told me about his 'true love', i kept discussing with another friend about our own respective ideas of 'Mr.Right'. It was very amusing and even straining, because when you think, you have to think very hard to list all the qualities that ur "Mr.Right" will have! Coz, i had never really ruled out the possibility, but was skeptical coz, i think, sometimes, life offers only a few chances of getting to meet that one person. It would've been convenient if there really was a solution of something like "imprinting" (if u have read all of the twilight saga, you would know) as it saves a lot of hardships and troubles!
The first time my mother met my father, it was, what do you call when u see each others photographs first? "A photographic meet"?? It was just that. And then they meet at the engagement and everything was fixed by the elders. Ofcourse, the era being a little more progressed than the oldest, both of them got their say of 'yes or no' and which place you want to get married, which way etc etc. I marvel at my mother's courage back then. I always failed to see if at all any courage or sacrifice was made necessary on my father's part. It was she who had to transplant her life from her home to his. I picture her formulating plans in mind about how best to get in good terms with each of my father's family members, and his was a joint family family- so much more people to live with. Or maybe, it dint work that way. She might have never had to think it through, plan it. Things might have just fallen in place.She might have always been best friends with my father's people, now hers too, from the very beginning, as she is now. I 'll never know. And thus i marvel at the courage of my mother, and my grandmother and my great grandmother and generations of women before them, who makes part of my blood and flesh. But the very institution of marriage continues to make me wonder..and feel terrorised, may be..
There may not be any reason why i should be so worried. May be it is my concern about my friend. I wish her good luck, and a very happy life. And I do see that my mother never really had any damage by marrying my father. Except her occasional taunts about my father, which she makes in the form of complaints, about how she never really got a lot of choice coz she agreed to the first person who came to meet her, my father. And that always brings about a quiet smile in my dad's face, which is really handsome to look at. And then i think that it must have been an easy choice for her. Coz my dad was very handsome then,and he is still, even with his fair share of grey hair (which he refuses to dye , which i like). He had brilliant educational qualification and family. So, may be it was easy for her, even with all the risk involved..Or may be im being unnecessarily crazy. I 'll never know. Or maybe i will find out some day. But i hope i 'll meet my Mr.Right on that way!!
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