“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.

Veiled, suppressed, subservient....AND LOVING IT

Before I begin this post, let me tell all my readers that this is not some bigoted Islamist rant against the 'rest of the world'. This is also not something I have been influenced into believing, knowing how easily influenced I am. This is merely a representation of my thoughts, those trivial questions that pop up in my mind when I am straining my poor befuddled brain for constraints and coherent sentences. Now, onward we march...

And say to the believing women that they cast down their looks and guard their private parts and do not display their ornaments except what appears thereof, and let them wear their head-coverings over their bosoms.] (An-Nur 24:31)

This here is the most ill-quoted, probably the most abused ayah in the Qur'an. The meaning of that one verse could be misconstrued, misinterpreted, mistranslated and miswhatever-to-suit-one's-views. The plight of the uneducated Muslim women in the hands of these "scholars" is indeed as sad as they come.
The Muslim woman, yes, is a picture of misery when looked at from the eyes of a stranger. She is veiled, she is carrying one child on her hip, resting the other on her lap, and probably has another hanging on to her leg, is not seen or heard even in her own household, might have to put up with other women who are legally her husband's wives,etc. We pity them, we even wonder why they don't really break free of all those bonds, but do we really have to blame the religion for it?
Islam, quite plainly, advocates that a woman, when in the presence of a stranger, should be covered from head to toe, barring her face, her palms and her feet. It also does not support a woman's walking around the place, rather, the religion says that a woman's place is at home.
However, before one jumps up and shouts in vehemence against the injustice meted out to Muslim women, one could stop and give it a thought. First, why is the Hijab such a big deal? If a nun is allowed to wear her habit, if a Gujarati/ Rajasthani/ Punjabi woman is seen as a picture of modesty when she covers her head, if a Malayalee Christian (Syrian or not, I don't know) covers her head in church, if a 'North Indian' kudi drapes her dupatta on her head (as in KJo movies), then why is it that only a Muslim woman is looked down upon as the silent sufferer?
Okay, consider this. How many of us walk out in the blasted sun and cover up our faces, necks, hands and feet? If we were to call every Muslim who wore the Hijab as 'Al Qaeda', then how many young girls (and boys) these days actually look like recruiters for the Organisation?
The Hijab, simply put, is not something that restricts you. In our own ways, each of us take a conscious decision about how much skin we really want to show to the rest of the world. While some of us would like to be a Bipasha Basu clone, others would like to be the next saint. That does not make anybody right or wrong. If a Muslim woman chooses to cover herself from head to toe, who are we to go about accusing her of shaking the very tenets of feminism? After all, does feminism really only grant you the liberty to walk around in a bikini or a halter top? Does it not give you the freedom to chose how you live your life? So, if I think of my body as my own business, and want to cover it up, then why can't I?
Look at the brighter side, no one really sees all that extra fat, those extra curves or those blemishes. Your skin is less tanned and pollution- free, and your hair doesn't get greasy or limp.
Considering all that, one wonders if perspective is all that matters.

remembering the light...

Diwali has always been one of my favourite festivals. The lights, the colours, the noise, the sweets, ah, the revelry! Being in Hyderabad these last couple of years, all that has somehow translated to a very hectic day with those people who mean so much more than even family, sometimes. The running around, the bossing, the leg- pulling, the cooking, the dressing up, the eating, oh, the hogging!!!
Today, when I look back at all that was, all I can think of is, no matter how much I disliked some things you did, how much I cribbed, how hurtful you were to me sometimes, how mean I was to you; no matter how far I go, or how many days go by without my calling you up (that has almost become a habit now), you will always be the ones who lighted up my life in so many different ways...from that first diwali with gajar ka halwa to the last one where all of us just forgot our differences and laughed...

Will I ever live those days again?

Dear Dad

Nineteen years. Nineteen whole years since that fateful morning when I felt lost because you were nowhere in sight. When I asked someone I have only always seen with you, about your whereabouts because the crowd was daunting. A lifetime since I wondered why you never came back home to take me in your arms and pamper me. Eons since I have learned to take care of everything and everybody around me.
But then, why is it that at every turning point in my life I want you to be proud of me? Why is it that I can always feel your love for me? With every good thing in life, why do I still feel your caring presence? That you are holding my hand and taking me along like you did on the beach, all those summers ago? Is this what everybody meant when they said you will live on forever in our hearts?

The ecstasy that is....

I have realized that the human mind is equipped to dislike, to even hate; but it is not equipped to clean the slate everytime somebody wrongs me. So, every time I remember something, from a life that was, I close my eyes, and smile- for the life that was, the pleasure that was, the camaraderie that was, and the freedom that is. And the ecstasy that is...

Ties that bind.... and gag!!!

So, people who have known me well enough are sure to know what a humongous family (extended, though) I have. And as is the case with every huge family, everybody happens to be in your face at the wrong time.
There are all sorts- people who have a problem that some kid is getting married at 18, others who have a problem that some of us are unmarried at 25, yet others who think that Xyz should not be married because Abc (who happens to be two months older) is not married yet(Abc and Xyz have the same great-great-grandmother). Then, there are the uncles who think love marriages should not be allowed, and yet others who think if the boy/girl is Muslim, it is alright (provided the family is as crazy as ours, as rich- not richer, if it is a bride we seek; as religious- not more religious if it is the groom we seek, and so on); and there are others who call up the boy's/ girl's parents and threaten to dispose of the family in the Arabian Sea (though the same uncles will partake in the wedding feast seated next to the groom/ bride).

What would one do without family members? They are there to hold your hand while you play the piano, they are there to grab your hand when you are falling, they are there to leave your hand when it is jammed. They are there to wipe away your tears of laughter, they are there to make you cry in frustration. They teach you to listen to your heart, but they only expect you to hear theirs. They teach you to dance as if there is no tomorrow, and then they teach you to dance to their tunes. They teach you to stand on your feet, and then they cut off your feet when you don't toe the line. You learn the rules, and then, just when you think you have mastered them, you see the fine-print. They teach you to love, and then they teach you to hate, and love all over again.The FAMILY is, after all, the best teacher.

They are happy when you win, happier when you succeed, and happiest when you fail at something they did not want you to succeed at anyway. They smile when you are in love, smile a little more secretively when you fall out of it, and smile the most when you marry someone of their choice. You learn to question, answer and shut up, all at once. You also learn to appreciate your many accomplishments and vociferously applaud another's success, however grudgingly.

The family is your one source of pure unadulterated hatred, venom, anger, wrath, sorrow, sarcasm, jealousy, pride, pleasure, togetherness and happiness. Hate them, love them, kill them, annihilate them, they will still come back to haunt you.

After all, aren't we all made of glue?

Memories....

Why is it that one little incident sparks off an avalanche of memories?

A tiny scene in a movie I have watched a zillion times, of a woman falling down the stairs (a very serious thing which brought about the whole change in mood in the movie), sparked off memories of all the times I have fallen, and the number of people and things I have sometimes unwittingly dragged in my wake. There have been times on escalators, school staircases, and there was one little stair in my apartment complex that actually was a tribute to my "falling" skills. But sadly, it does not exist any longer!

Now that brings to mind how things change over time. People, relationships, priorities, even buildings change. Where there was once a nice coffee factory, there stands an ugly mall. While once upon a time your hand was held while crossing the road, now you help people cross the same road which has become two lanes larger. People who used to love to chat up about ,canteen samosas, movies and homework, now talk about themselves, their children, their trips to Paris, Rome and the shopping festival.

The same girl who loved getting on escalators now wonders why children can be so irritating as to go up and down escalators in crowded malls. The girl who once fell down a flight of stairs with (and because) her hands linked in two of her friends' (on either side, obviously) now wonders why it is so necessary for people to hold hands while walking, and if they realize how comical they look to passersby.

Is this what growing up is all about?

One thing is for sure. No matter how much I grow up, I will never be able to write or say something that is cohesive, follows a straight pattern, and does not jump from one thing to another. This post is proof for that!

Entwined branches...

" I heard Dee is getting married" said Mom, yesterday. So then, the usual questions cropped up. The wise Brother asked Mom how she got to know of the soon-to-be nuptials, and then came Mom's nonchalant reply, "Dee's grandmom's sister's daughter's sister-in-law's niece told her friend, who stays in the same flat as Aunt's sister-in-law's cousin." Now, for those of you who are still confused, Dee happens to be Aunt's niece.And no, I am not going to tell you how Aunt is not really Mom's sister, but the wife of Dad's father's mother's cousin's (mother's brother's) son.
One thing led to another, and I began wondering how I would describe my relation to Dee. Is she my cousin at all? If she is, how many times removed (can I even use that term here) is she? In the light of the relation question comes the bigger question of how I could describe all my "cousins" to anybody who doesn't understand that for me, like many Indians, Arabs, and others, "family" is enough to include all those ties that go back to Adam and Eve.

(I had started writing this some time ago, and then I fell asleep, and like everything else, this waited for me to get back to it. Can't think of anything to add, so there.)

In reply to "Joys of Muslim Women" by Nonie Darwish(supposedly)

Islam, a religion oft misinterpreted, has faced a lot of criticism time and again for the various "injustices" against women that it reportedly advocates. This particular 'letter' by Nonie Darwish,(http://wakeupamericansnow.blogspot.com/2009/09/joys-of-muslim-women.html) an Egyptian woman who has embraced the United States and its culture, is yet another thorn in Islam's already tarnished side.
Before I go on to express my views, let me make it clear that this letter has not hurt my religious sentiments, as such. Rather, it has made me question the paranoia of the West, and the extent to which people would go to achieve whatever their goals are, however insane. I have been reading up a few things here and there to know if this is the truth, and if I really follow a faith that is reportedly a champion of such miserable chauvinistic principles.
Why is it that most people, muslims and non- muslims alike, seem to have forgotten that Islam, in its most fundamental form, stands for peace? The cruel bloodshed that goes on in the name of Jihad in the modern day world, carried out by fanatics who claim to be Believers who are carrying out the will of God, is a blight on the religion and its tenets.
Let's look at the letter which prompted me to come out of my self-imposed writer's block with a vengeance. I am no expert on the religion, and I do not claim to know much about it. In fact, I am quite ignorant about Islam. But I do know a few things, and one of them is this- Islam is a moderate religion, which preaches peace and goodwill among mankind. The severity of the religion that most "Believing Muslims" (who beg to be different from the common "practicing" muslims) follow are, if I may put it that way, distortions brought about by Man, and Man here, is not mankind, but the chauvinistic, self- centered, testosterone-high psuedo male, who turns to a few pages from history in order to keep his woman (or women)in check and keep the frail pieces of his ego together along with his worry-frayed nerves.
Nonie Darwish (or her impersonator), however, has transcended levels of sublime stupidity at the very beginning of the letter. Islam, or any other religion that I know of, does not validate the marriage of a one- year old infant to any man, with or without all the gifts he can afford to give, in spite of which unborn children, in many parts of our poverty- stricken world are betrothed to equally unsuspecting 'partners'. There are verses in the Qur'an that speak about the Prophet's (pbuh) wife, Aisha and imply that she was as young as 9 years old when their marriage was consummated. However, as shameful as it may seem, this is a common occurrence the world over. Child marriages are common enough in India, among the tribes of Africa, and even among the Zionists and a few churches in the United States, despite strict laws protecting women and their rights. It is not a consequence of the spread of Islam. Moreover, pedophiles are everywhere, and we do not need a religion to help us have more of those, the world has too many anyway.
What is mentioned in the same paragraph about the dowry is true. In most muslim nations and households, it is considered a shame to take anything from the bride's
family. The man has to go to the bride's house, approach the father (or whoever is in charge of the household), offer gold, money and clothes. They do not take any money from the girl- no dowry, no "gifts" (like Indian muslims take). ((One up,dear feminists.)) This serves two purposes- one, to show that he is financially sound, or getting there, and two, that he is capable of taking care of the girl, and the family that is sure to follow, with his own money. (( Strike two!!))
But hey, they do not pay the money to purchase the girl and use her as a slave. If we are going to look at it that way, then, what do we have to say about the poor Indian girls? They pay the groom, they arrange a wedding, boring a hole the size of a crater in the poor fathers' wallets, and then they serve like drudges in their households, cooking, cleaning and earning their daily bread. Why, they even convert the Ladies' coupe of passenger trains into mini-kitchens on their way back from work!
In most so- called "muslimly- backward" countries, the literacy rate for women is higher than in other developing nations. The kind of freedom they enjoy is amazing. The women, even though in hijab, work in educational institutions, in the government, and other places, (and this is the case even in post-Taliban, Bush-Obama's war strategy plagued Afghanistan), and since their men do not expect them to contribute to keeping the home fires burning, can indulge in all the pleasures their money can buy. These women do not have the harried bedraggled look that their American and other 'progressive' counterparts have. They enjoy more relaxed working hours, have the pleasure of being able to do odd, mundane, boring little things like spending time with their children, cooking for the family, and keeping the house less messy, and more homely. In short, they get to have the whole cake, and eat it too. Not a bad idea, that.
Divorce, of course, is easier to come by for a man. However, if anybody out there tells you that talaq in Islam can be obtained by just saying the word thrice, please laugh in his or her face. Men do have more power over their women, and Islam does say that a woman has to obey her husband, and follow his guiding hand. But women do get divorce, for various reasons, and with time, more women are able to obtain divorce and stay respectably in the same place after divorce.
Rape is something I do not have anything good to say about, because I have not chanced across any reports of people who have been brought to justice when a girl is raped. If, however, the charge is proven without doubt, then the punishment is severe, and, I must say, an eye- opener for other men whose brains follow the law of gravity too strongly.
Divorce, rape and beating are three areas where Islam is 'barbaric'. Again, Islam does not allow a man to beat his wife because she had mistakenly added starch to his shirt or miscalculated the amount of salt in his chicken curry. A man is allowed
to beat his wife in extreme cases, when he thinks she is going astray. Even then, he is not allowed to beat her to pulp, and leave her for the dead. Sadly, this is a common scenario in most Islamic nations.
As far as the question of Jihad goes, Islam is not a clarion call for bloodthirsty hounds to slake their thirst. It does not preach the subjugation or annihilation of disbelievers. An aayah in the Qur'an says,"You follow your faith, I follow mine." In most lines in the Qur'an, the idea that God will reward or punish you for your deeds, and will judge you, as a human being, for the life you lived, is pretty clear. There are verses which belittle relationships with disbelievers, and such like, but the Qur'an does not ask any man to take upon himself the difficult job of annihilating an entire world of people.
What is being done in the name of "jihad" is something that any self- respecting muslim would not associate himself with. And, it is a pretty well- known fact that the West does not tolerate what they do not understand, or anything that threatens to consume them and change their monotonous, worry- free existence. We can attribute the last warning in Nonie's letter to some kind of paranoia, and then again, religious intolerance and racial discrimination are the two least advertised western traits.
The last bit of the letter goes on to prove and reconfirm the paranoia that people in the West are experiencing, and people such as this writer are just feeding on that, like blood-sucking parasites.
Yes, Islam is becoming highly intolerant. More and more educated muslims are
becoming more fanatic in the name of "pursuing the faith", and it is the
younger generation that is increasingly leaning to the violent side of
Islam. So, there are well- educated boys who say they do not want their
wives to earn, to work, etc. They want girls who wear the hijab, and mostly,
they insist on girls covering their faces.
I dread to think of a world where the so- called "religious muslims" will
have an upper hand, because they do not do things in moderation, and they
tend to bend ideas according to their whims and fancies. However, I
think its not just the muslims that have to be stopped, it is this whole quest for power that has to be stopped.
Atheist, Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jew or Human, may your faith keep you, and may your luck keep you safe, from travail, destruction, and war.

I love you...

Dear boy,

I love you. No, I think I love you very much. I am crazy about you. I tell the world, I think, THIS IS IT. I have really found the perfect guy. I am ready to get married now.

The world asks, "Are you sure?"

And I wonder why. I am in love with you. I call you so many times in a day, in spite of all the work I have, just to tell you how much I love you, because my heart dies to say it out loud. I call during my lunch break, because I want you to know that I have not forgotten your existence amidst the various things clouding my brain in the middle of my work day. I send you a message while I am running back to work after my half-eaten sandwich has been thrown in the waste- bin, because I already miss you. I call when I am taking a much-needed break from my computer, because I do not want you to think I am ignoring you. I call again when I am leaving my desk just so you know that my work is done for the day. I call when I am going back home to check if you are fine and your work is going okay, and if your secretary is still disturbing you with her mini-skirt presence. I let you know when I am home so that you do not add worries about my safety to your sky- high list of worries about work, home,...
As I do the work I have taken home, I wait for you to call to say you are home. But you do not call. I understand, love, you have to unwind, take a shower, have your coffee, watch the game on television, catch up with your friends, talk to mom, feed the dog, give him some love, tackle the landlord and his mercenaries, call your secretary to talk about work, talk to the boss, and then cook or buy dinner. While I cook dinner, I think of you, and how much I miss you, and then you call. I leave my dinner halfway, talk to you. Dinner is not as important as you, is it? You say you will call me back, and I wait. I am sleepy, but if I lie down, I might not hear your call. So I sit down in a chair and wait for your call. I doze off, my work gets scattered, but my phone remains firmly in my lap, clasped resolutely in my hands. All this, because I love you, and I can not sleep without having said good night to you. Why would I do this every day of my life, if I did not really love you, I say to the world.

The world asks, "What do you see in him?"

And I wonder why. I am in love with you- the person you are. I do not care if you are short or tall, thin or fat, fair or dark. I do not care that your shoulders are not broad, that your hands are baby-like, that your feet have those black blisters and are cracked, that your eyes do not sparkle when you smile at me after I apologize whenever we have an argument, that your hair is too oily, that your nails are always overgrown and not clean, nothing. I really do not bother about your socks being unwashed, that little wrinkle in the front of your shirt, the fit of your trousers, the stoop of your shoulders, the ruffled,long hair. I have no complaints about the way you treat the dog, the way you drive your car, how you expect me to carry all the shopping bags while you find somebody to talk on the phone, how we always go to places that do not accept your credit card, or the way you smoke, drink, party or switch off your phone after an argument. Honestly, I am not hurt when you ask me to call you later while I am talking to you about my day, or when you doze off while I am crying to you. I understand that you are tired after work, have enough problems of your own to deal with (since we spend hours talking about them, and I try and resolve as many as I can), and the restaurants and shops should really upgrade to stay in touch with the latest developments.
I tell the world that you are like my father. Actually, you are a lot more caring than him. You do not like it if I have too many friends, outings, get-togethers, cookouts, parties, late nights, unlike dad, who used to allow outings and girl night-outs. You are a lot more protective than dad. He has never glared at the guy who smiled at me in the medical store. He has never asked me to stop thanking every guy who carries my grocery bags to my car, fills fuel in my car, serves food at restaurants,etc. Dad has never even noticed that the perfume I wear makes me more noticeable. In fact, dad has always made it a point to buy me my perfumes. Now that you have noticed, I have asked dad to stop buying me things, as he does not know what is good for me. I do not spend time with dad, though we always had our special Sundays where nobody was allowed (not even mom), but I can spend that time with you, can't I? I can't ignore you, darling. Dad understands. The world will too.Soon.
I announce to the world that I am getting married to you,that I can not wait to spend my entire life with you.

And then, the world asks again, "Are you sure?"

I wonder why. I love you. I care about you. I like the way you take care of every detail in my life. I do not need friends when I have you around- you are my best friend, and anyway, they do not understand us. I do not need my parents when you are there- you take better care of me any way. I do not have time to call anybody because I call you all the time. I do not have to drive to the grocery store- you will drive me there. I do not have to put up with the stares of every male in the place- you will stare at them, their wives, their daughters and the babies' nannies.I do not have to go out alone or even with girls in these dangerous times- you will take me everywhere you think we should go, when you have the time. Anyway, you know which places we should go to. I do not have to break my head over the kind of clothes I should buy- you know what looks best on me. Since I have known you, I have lost touch with my reading, my acquaintances, my friends, my family, my tastes, my likes, my dislikes, my individuality. I do not know the new me. You know me. I have a new self- you.
Why would I not marry you? Have I not made myself perfect for you, and forgotten who I am? Is marriage not all about adjustments? And don't I do enough of that to keep us happy for life? Is it not enough that I love you enough for the two of us?

What does the world know, anyway?

The long and short of things....

So, I was born tiny. Shouldn't have mattered one bit. Only that I was born into a family of tall people, who took a certain pride in their lofty bearings.
Being the favourite 'toss-in-the-air' kid was fun for a while. Then it got boring to whizz in air, and have fragile bones crushed in the tossers' attempts to prevent the tiny one from slipping through big, widespread hands. That is when the wonderful art of barfing presented itself. (Thank you for that, Ms. Guardian Angel.) Screw up face, turn beet red, make a small noise in the back of your throat, and viola, you are on terra firma, and everybody is giving you a wide berth. Happiness!!!
But then, you still remain the small one, who is dawdling while the whole world is moving on its long legs; the perfect size to get a stray knee in the head when the tall one kneels down to pat your oh-so-cute head. Just when you think you are growing up because your clothes are getting shorter than permissible, and feel good, the coconut tree competitors shoot up a little more. Sigh!!!
Constant taunts about the weather down in the shortosphere, the various experiments to prove the converse of "the bigger they are, the better they fall", always being pushed to the front of a crowd to see things better, and thus sometimes landing up in front of elephants and other minuscule objects, wearing extra long, designed-for-mummification kancheevaram sarees resulted in a desperate turn to high heels. Didn't help. It was now easier to prove all variants of the afore said theory of size and falling. Depression!!!
And then came my look-at-the-world-your-way lenses. So what if you are short? You don't have to bend down to walk through any door, except something designed for children. (Sometimes I don't even have to bend for those.) Hold head high, walk in, head intact, doorway intact, smile intact. None of that sudden ducking to avoid a wooden frame, no hair ruffled by various things in the door frame, no sudden stoop, no angry red bulge on the forehead if you forget to duck. Ha.
You also don't have to run the risk of hitting your head on the ceiling when you clamber up stacked up chairs to retrieve some long-forgotten, erstwhile and still largely useless thing. Take a chair, climb up, take thing, go your way; no having to wash off whitewash or, worse still, cobwebs from your hair.
Lack of space, too many people at home? No problem, curl up on a sofa, or in some corner of a bed, make sure no long limbs will disturb your little, curled up hands and legs, sleep well.
Even when you are being lined up for a sound scolding, you can simply stand behind one of those taller people, and not be noticed at all. No severe glare from elder to show you his or (more often) her displeasure; no piece of mind heard for being so big, yet so careless; sometimes, utter disbelief that the little one could have reached that high up to cause so much chaos- like climbing a tree and breaking a branch. Mischief managed. Ha.
All things considered, the weather in Shortosphere is so much pleasanter.

There have been many incidents since my last (and first) post. But every time I think I should post, the usual excuses crop up to stop me from doing it. So this is just a wee little one, an exercise in 'self- indulgence'; to let my poor, muddled brain believe that I am back to writing, may be not with a vengeance, but I am not going to back out. Not now, may be not for a long time to come.

Of missings and musings

That time of the year again. Memories. Of wonderful times spent together. Of little plans, and revised plans. Of surprises. Of quizzical expressions. Of ‘exclusionary’ acts. Of fun. Of happiness. True, unadulterated happiness.

That time of the year again. Miss- its. Miss the good ol’ days. Miss the love. Miss the hugs. Miss the loud dinners. Miss the good- natured teasing, the bantering. Miss the camaraderie. Might- last- for- life friendships.

That time of the year again. Musings. What if we were the same old people… What if we had never drifted apart? What if nothing had changed… what if we had not grown up to see through shallow acts? What if we did not have to face reality? Harsh selfish reality…