“Onnu chelladi nee, vere joli onnum illa avalku,” was always followed by the typical chuckle, when any of his daughters or granddaughters wished him a happy birthday. Last year, when I called him, to wish him, he coughed a lot after laughing. Little did I know that the cough was followed by a splatter of blood. Little did I know that July 1, 2013 would be the last time I would hear him say the sentence that made me laugh despite the seeming rebuke, from the man who could make anyone laugh.

Laughter was his signature. The house resounded with his laughter. After a pretty nondescript journey from Coimbatore to Ernakulam, and a backbreaking journey from Ernakulam to Thoppumpady, a mini hurdle- dodging walk from the road to his house, we would be greeted by a tall, frail man in a sofa. A salaam, followed by a loving slap on the back, and a “Engene undayirnnu bus yatra? Mindaathe train eduthoode?” followed by the wonderful laugh, would just make all those aches and pains that sprouted up thanks to the Kochi roads, disappear.

He taught me many things. He first taught me to deal with loss. When my dad passed away, he took my tiny, six- year old hands in his large, warm ones and taught me love and acceptance. He showed me how to be brave, and take life by the horns. He became my new hero.

At his ‘shop’, I learned what it was to have the love and respect of your colleagues. The friendly banter, the easy problem solving, and of course, the same jokes followed by the laughter, became my first picture of a workplace. I’m yet to find one like that. When the bags of rice where unloaded from the merchant boat to the humble wharf, I imagined he was a king, with his own shipyard. Well, in my eyes, he was.

Years passed, I grew up; out of my childish dreams, into new ones. He introduced me to literature. In a very enchanting way, he told me a story, and at the end of it, revealed to me that it was written by Tolstoy. I was hooked. Later, in college, I would talk to him about Dickens and Hardy, and he, in his simple manner, would give me perspectives I had never thought of. He would read and reread every little scrap of writing in my books, appreciate every little thing, and be tremendously proud of me. Basheer, the author I can’t get enough of, was introduced to me one rainy evening, while we sat in the Fort Kochi verandah, looking at the goats being herded home. Of course, Pathummayude Aadu remains one of my favorites.

Ikaka, Di and I will never forget the summers at Fort Kochi. The only word that comes to mind is “mangoes.” The careful planning, the evenings spent with him, the tidbits of information, the secrets we exchanged, and, of course, the laughter while we plucked mangoes that held more promise than all the dates of Arabia, the concentration while peeling the mangoes, the love with which he fed each of us with his own hands, the stories that accompanied the ritual that mango- eating was- nothing was the same this summer.

He took so much pride in everything his grandchildren did. Every little accolade was a big deal to him. He would have the time and patience to listen to each one of us, though all of us vied for his attention at the same time. He imparted advice, not in the boring baritone of some elder, but with a laugh, in a manner that did not offend us. He had dreams, but he kept them aside for all of us.

He was a master at simple living. Thrifty, he was not. Satisfied, he was. In many ways, he had more wealth than many men. He had a wonderful family that doted on him, he spread cheer, and nobody who met him went away without sharing a laugh or a joke. His anecdotes were not all that funny, but his laughter and his enthusiasm made them seem like the craziest, wildest, most funnily bizarre tales in the world.

Memories of him are like a mosaic. Everything seems to jump at me from different corners of my mind. And all of them are glued together with the sound of his laughter.

Today, it is difficult to think Upapa is not with us anymore. It is tough to remember that he is not a phone call away. Accepting that he is not going to be there with a smile when we go to his house, seems impossible. Every space in that house seems barren without him. The sound of his laughter was what made that house, home.

It’s almost a year since that midnight trip to Ernakulam, that long wait outside the ICU, the multiple declarations of death, the prayers, tears and that final goodbye.

Why does it feel like he is still here? Why do his jokes about the Sahib who ate the jackfruit seed, the other “foolish Sahib” jokes, the “backside”, the misunderstood telegram, the fallen dentures, and so many others come to mind every time I am close to tears? Why does every thought of him bring a smile? Why does it seem like he is there, every time I need him?

Probably because, like he said to a seven year old, “People we love, never die. They just become (guardian) angels. HAHAHAHAHAHA....” :)

Rambling on...

So much has happened since I last posted here. So much has happened before that too. Friends got married, others got engaged, yet others are moving from wifedom to motherhood, while some are discovering the joy of falling in love. Now, that is not what I want to write about. I really don't know what I should be writing about. Do I write about how easily we change? How it is so easy to forget those little things that meant a great deal to us once upon a time? How life seems to have a plan of its own when it comes to deciding how often friends keep in touch? Or do I write about what they say about the best laid plans? I don't really know. I just needed to write. And not make sense. I guess I'm doing a good job of that.

Something someone said to me last night got me thinking. I have been keeping to myself mostly because my sorry excuse for a life is getting sorrier by the moment. Friends seem to be finding better things to do with their lives, like meet new people, fall in love, change jobs, priorities and places, and I seem to have found a wonderful remedy to being out of the loop- my work. I do everything under the sun; train teachers, teach little kids, put books together, draw (I know some people are cringing now, but I'm getting better), order books for libraries, cook, well, the list goes on. All I keep from doing is, spend time with friends who are far away. Even when I blame myself for it, I wonder why these same people who accuse me of shutting myself away, do not take the initiative to call or message, or even reply to messages beyond the prefunctory hello. So, I have decided, the next time someone tells me that I am curling up into a ball inside my shell, I'm going to ask the person to check the last time he/ she took time away from whatever is keeping him/ her busy to spend a few minutes listening to how bad my day was, and if you are looking for chirpy, sunshiny me, you might need to spend a little more time than how much it takes to type a "Hey, hw r u"

whispers...

The breeze softly rustled the fallen leaves

as the gate swung soundlessly, granting me entry

The place was strangely alive yet empty.

Every step I took brought me closer

to the sounds whispering in my ear;

the laughter of children mingled with cries of agony

and a thousand tales gushed forth

from the recesses in the broken walls

Voices called out from behind the weathered screen

where once sat the women of the house

gazing surreptitiously at a harried world passing by

while time stayed still in their world.

The smoke from their hookah transformed into webs

that gently reminded me of stories long forgotten

yet preserved in the cobwebs of my mind.

lessons learnt

My poor dead sucker fish taught me a lesson in death. Seeing it lie there, ignored by the rest, mouth wide open, body bent and twisted, I realised something. No matter how much shit you eat just so everyone in your world lives a (relatively) shit- free life, no one ever notices. They only notice how you seem to be growing, and therefore, thriving. In the end, when you are spent, dead from all the shit you have taken, your world still goes on. The others do not die because of the shit you have stopped taking. No sir. They live on, with all that shit. Kinda makes one wonder why the poor thing took all that fishy waste anyway. I hope the poor little sucker rests in peace.

Dear boy

With you, I sang a million secret songs.
To you, I whispered feelings I had never known before.
With you, I have known a joy that could only be love:
A true simple love, purer than dawn.

wings to fly

You give a little bird wings

Teach it to fly

Applaud as it touches the sky-

and when it returns for your embrace,

You put it in a little cage

and tell it to dream, and fly;

it flutters its wings in vain

whilst it watches the world go by

from within the confines of its forlorn little cage.

joy

All I want is to lie in your arms, listening to the rain falling outside our window, and experience joy in the warmth of your smile.