That is something probably he is used to hearing from F, whom he considered more of a Kid Brother. “My Sister always thought you were a complete mess in your head.”
Something that stuck with him for life. There is a stagnant place in life, just like we all believe there must have been a simpler place in time. Strangely life takes you more often there, leaving you bewildered.
Like the tempting waves of the sea, as one steps into the shore, the water soothes you, caressing you and thereby slowly touching each fibre of your soul and wading you into it. There is a moment when you let go of the fear and step into the horizon of the unknown as the ocean engulfs you into it completely. Few people rarely get into ocean that way, to completely give into it.
Those countless hours they have spent on the sea, her fascination for water as F puts it. He was taken completely by the charms of the siblings. They are quite apart yet they are so similar. As we all grow up, we outgrow the intimacy of being brothers or sisters. What charmed him more, is that he can see himself as the brother and the sister and how much he miss being a brother to his own brother. As D puts it often, “Cranky families produce better children” Yet they are his own dysfunctional idea of family and love.
The girl that he fell in love, a girl who who grudgingly yet soulfully built a home in a house full of strangers. A girl who painfully transformed herself into a woman, having fought for a place in the world. A woman who with an easy smile and with a sip of wine can be dismissive, “Yeah.It all happened. Everything was given to me at the right time.” He did wonder at how many people, actually would be so nonchalant about growing up.
A few remnants of the residual love, the slight amused tilt, “You are so much a kid, still.” the smile she had for him through the side mirror as she parks her car in the reverse, a momentary pause to decide whom to greet first, the dog or the guy. The way he longs for those rare moments when she leans onto him, the smell of her morning shower, the smell on her hospital dress, when she is back home. The way she closes her eyes as a test and a thought to decide how much water for the rice to boil. A tired greeting on the phone at the end of the day. The twinkle in her eyes at his every gesture of love and surprise. Her resignation for his ways into the future, “You are still a student, bubby” Her habit of flicking off the TV for a second to see him in the screen, sipping the cup of tea for sweetness. The way she raises her voice stern and firm, when he is all bugging about ,”Bunk today, Please.” The memory of a woman checking her Kohl in the mirror as she gets ready for work.
Those evenings, when they all huddle together on the floor around the sofa, Tea, snacks, Wine, endless chatter and banter, the movies, the cards, the board games, those dumb charades. Its the time, when all he looks is for a moment when she would little brush against him as she gets up to leave or snuggle quietly into his lap, humming along a song quietly, as she winks at him. Those myriad memories of her. As F teases him, “You are way too smitten,” And remember, “My Sister always thinks; you are a complete mess in your head.”
To meet and part; To part and to meet. And the final memory as she closes her eyes and sings in a soothing voice and in tune with the pitch as she raises in the timbre,
“Kaatru Veesum Veyyil Kaayum Kaayum Athil
Maatram Èthum Illayae.. Aaaa..
Vaanum Mannum Nammai Vaazha Chøllum Antha
Vaazhthu Oayavillai Èndrendrum Vaanil..,”
In that Ephimeral bubble of eternity, he rests his life as she opens her eyes with a smile. The unmistakable sad silt of her head with the twinkle of a small sigh.
Where could i possibly begin?
At an ending. May be an impending ending. That kept us Waiting.
i couldn’t possibly start counting the memories we are both bestowed with, And in great vain, i attempt to remember the mortal remains of memories of togetherness.
For Memory is a burden.
How do i remember thee? Let me uncount the ways
i remember thee to the depth and breadth and height
To the beginning of the warmth in your touch
i remember thee to the end of every next-day
Most quietly waiting by my g-talk for a message to pop up
Into the laziness of your day-ending as my day dawns to the sound of your voice
i shall wait, my time to serve with memories intact
To see you somewhere in all my griefs and faith.
i shall but remember thee Always
For i know no greater love than, of remembrance
“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.”
A year that just slipped by, a year of grief; certainly,`The Year of Magical Thinking’ when a thousand things dawned onto the quiet mind basking in laziness. An urgent need to seize the slyly time that refuses to wait for any tides. A few memories, that needs exorcizing, if not will continue to haunt the remains of time. A happy memory of learning, loving and living together for a short worthwhile. As the year ends, a few deaths that scarred me remains untangled, in the web of memory. An haphazard need to bid adieu to a thousand things as the year nears its end.
At times, Waking up is a like a dream. A certain kind of feeling it evokes as one wakes up from/to a dream. She did remember this; a distant memory, a near-fading past- his feel of lips on her navel. She could only chuckle at the memory, his less than short of obsession with navels.
Next only to books, those unread, but buying books at every other day, the untidy linings of the books along the walls of every shelf. For only the beauty of Japanese language can find a word for book hoarding – Tsundoku.
To end the year with something that i recently read/lived through. Kafka on the shore is one of the strangest books i’ve read. A journey that stretches itself onto the realms of magic as the reader approaches it. The story is narrated from different perspectives of Kafka Tamura, a fifteen-year-old boy who runs away from home to escape an oedipal prophecy and thereby making it true and then the story of Nakata, an old man who gained the ability to talk to cats after an incident in his childhood.
This entire book reads like a fine collage of intense vignettes of unrelated dreamy scenes and poignant conversations. A meandering dreamlike tone drives the entire reading experience. A surrealistic “Kafka-esque” thread runs all along the narrative tying the loose ends, before the book ends. At times, it takes a toll on the reader to make connections every now and then, that said, it ain’t an easy read.
One can sense an intentional ambiguity in the very narrative and the plot.
May be the book speaks to me in a way, as to the threshold, that had been pushed onto me.
“Listen, Kafka. What you’re experiencing now is the motif of many Greek tragedies. Man doesn’t choose fate. Fate chooses man. That’s the basic worldview of Greek drama.”
As often, i feel the lure of the unknown quite regularly. May be like everything else, “Kadhalum Kadandhu Pogum”
I knew deep inside me that I will not and cannot love him as how S loved him. Yet my fondness grew aplenty, platonically. He made me grow into the person that I always wanted to. He taught me; how to dribble a ball, climb, swim, trek, to whistle with fingers, tie a sailor’s knot in ropes and Windsor’s knot and seventeen other ways to tie a necktie, something that my children adore in me now.
And, as I always remember being the youngest and only daughter, how it was to be treated a-bullied-yet-the-princess of the world by my brothers. I wish my two daughters would stop constantly picking on their brother and leave him to grow up like, the memory of mine-You.
an anonymous night
two souls delved deeper
in the piercing cold,
hot,the glistening beads of sweat…
in the unspent hour hurriedly,
i searched for a known semblance…
of the crispness in the wild air,
the mud patch of the wet earth,
the whining moon light,
the unmistakable sad tilt of your head…
in the inner sanctum of the dark and coldest night,
embers of romance are still warm,
a flame of nostalgic love will now be lit
for the memories of unmade love…
Does the night still possess the love to serenade the moon?
In a major Holiday-hang-over
Went to coimbatore… My college n old times…..
Met Amazwi, Blogger Vignesh….. More on that .. soon
Oops! Off to hyderabad tomorrow, Got an interview. wish me all good luck…..
Sorry, been away from many blogs n blog friends-family… This post just to keep informed, am alive n kicking. catch you soon on your blogs…
Had a great trip with my lil bro after a long time….
On the way to be a research scholar soon….
There are certain questions, one should refrain from asking, especially when you happen to travel with someone who calls and considers him/her self a writer.
“What kind of a writer are you?”
Well. I never had a clue, all other times; it was either a warm or an I-don’t-encourage-such-questions smile. But that day, to the most unfortunate despair of the interrogator, I had this answer, spontaneously brimming up inside me.
“I just write, hence I’m a writer, but my writings and my being of a writer is multi-layered, rather a multi-staged process. I’m a reluctant writer and when I’m past my reluctance, I turn to this compulsive writer and keep writing, only to end up as a voluminous writer. I cannot help identifying the little things and people prefer to call this labeling. So I’m even a labelist-writer, in a way.
She had this what-wrong-did-I-ever-do-to-you look on her face. For the greater good, I excused myself, “It is quite sultry inside. I’ll just go, stand near the door for a while.” And I left my window seat.
Pre-script: This post can be lengthily lengthy! Read it at your own ease.
Then I did realize the importance rather the necessity to traverse in the depressing murky narrow lanes of human mind. I did make the journey. In a shorter while, I stood face to face with him. He was tall and nude. I glimpsed down at Him, sensing his faltering hesitation, I averted my glance. I found out, he was shy and got intimidated by my presence before his naked self. It looked pale. It didn’t bother me anyway; for I had a mother’s eye. I was not disgusted by his nudity. His sudden appearance brought out the rather dormant motherly instincts alive in me. I reached the door of his grief-stricken soul and gently knocked to wake him up. He understood my silent plea to unburden his sorrows on me. I still got a chance to identify my own self in him, overcoming all my possible short-comings and human weakness. I can hear his prayers. I prayed/wished there were fewer burdens and more people to help him with his yoke. For the first time, I looked at his eyes, to see the fear blooming away to a smile.
When any mind is dug, the depths are seen to be filled with the acid, frustration- the source of hatred ness, which gets accumulated due to the needless and endless rush to no-where. People don’t let the flow of base, literally and chemically i.e., assurance-the source of love, to neutralize this and so as to stop the mind ending up, thoroughly eroded and turns to a scathed monstrous inside spitting words of venom outside.
What could I possibly tell, to let him learn that nudity is sacred and so are every private secret. No god/human-made-god is sacred. Believing that thy gods are sacred is the absolute Blasphemy. Nothing is more sacred than/as sacred as Human spirit.
When you sow love in life, you reap only smiles in return, the other synonym of love, which is pure and blissful, like that of a baby, which arouses a desire in you to touch and caress in rejoice.
Ever patted someone’s cheek with love, when they smile? You will know.
Sitting on a beach, feeling the coarse texture of the sand against my skin, with the music, plugged in, either Savage Garden/Bob Marley, with Italo Calvino unveiling the secrets of the Invisible cities, sipping apple juice spiked with white Mischief to be lost in the magical orange hues of the evening sun.
How romantic! How rejuvenating! NOTHING ELSE MATTERS
Only, when you’re in Pondicherry, Marina, Marine Drive, Kovalam, Goa or Gokarhna.
Sitting in the living room, awake at an unearthly hour, with four other souls deep asleep at the dead of night, I look out of my window and heave the usual sigh!
I found myself awake to the deserted sight of my bedroom. No clue! When I fall a prey to Insomnia. I get up all by my self, prepare the most-cherished-I-made-my-own-chai and sit at my dining for the morning my-alone-mono-conversation. Brother would have left to Bangalore, remembered seeing him at 7, when I tossed around. Heard dad’s voice and spotted him in his usual I-don’t-see-my-spectacles-anywhere look, when I blinked and adjusted to the morning light entering through the window. Listened to mom’s daily set of instructions, “Keep some milk for puppy, you have your breakfast soon, clean up the kitchen, put away the used dishes, keep the house tidy, pay the grocery bill”, when I got up to switch off my alarm and sleep again.
Watch Television, sit at the PC, listen to music, stare at an empty space, sit idly, read, pick up a novel and start umpteen times, sketch/scribble/cook. Mono/multi/juggle tasks. Do nothing/everything. A day is gone. I spend my whole day regretting not being early, missing the jog and curse for being lately late every night. And naturally you grow around the middle.
Vacation does this. No matter how well you plan to finish novels, jog/jinx/jingle everyday learn guitar/music/cooking, watch movies plan a thousand trips. Nothing happens. Believe me, been through it badly, madly and truly.
VACATE YOUR HOME DURING VACATION.
When you’re an adult
1) NEVER EVER holiday at home, you’re past the age of summer camps/cramps
2) Home is meant to be missed and not to SPEND vacations.
Orkut and face book even bores the hell out of you. And you turn the most perverted poet. G talk status – a testimony to this statement
With all this now going in for a more while. I plan to write books/scholarly articles on the following topics
1) The Ignored Psychology of the Blissful Boredom
2) Being the second born – boon or bane.
3) Ten sure and safe ways to seek instant attention
4) An Introduction to holidaying at home.
5) The Psycho-analysis of bored-minds: A socio-cultural approach
6) What not to do, when you’re Home Alone.
7) Understanding the problems of the Youngest Kid.
8) How to be a successful attention Seeker
9) The nuances of being a nuisance at home – A beginner’s theory
Efforts are been given at a full fledged pace and wish me all luck.
As Erma Bombeck quotes, “Being a child at home alone in the summer is a high-risk occupation. If you call your mother at work thirteen times an hour, she can hurt you.”
And as JB ma’m puts it, “You’re home-sick, you reach home and soon, you grow sick of home.”
Yet, how I wish, I get up every morning to the beautiful sight of the snow-clad Alps Mountain on the meadows with that special dream-girl rather my-kind-of-girl cuddled up beside me.
No! No! NO! I’m a single, and not that desperate or waiting to mingle-single. It is just that I wish, to know what it is to get committed and to flash my COMMITTED status in Orkut and face book.
No Shrings! I’m still the committed single. Remember we can flirt, flirt and flirt, No worries, we’re still committed to our single hood status. We’re The Committed Singles.
And you T**** Now don’t call me a predictable pervert, you Pakistani *******U**. I miss my campus life, BIG time!!!!
I abstain form the temptations of running away, deserting my own self. I just cannot imagine my own self deserting the precious me.
The best way to overcome temptations is to yield into them – Oscar Wilde.
For I know, there are less and less worthy things in life to run after and more and more beautiful occasions and meaningful things to look forward. “Everything Waits”. As Samby puts it, “Nothing great has been achieved except by those who believe that something inside them is superior to circumstance.. And I continue to believe..”
addthis_pub = ‘barathwillbe’;
Sitting by my bedside window, I couldn’t stop wondering where my fate took me. Rather should I say how I took refuge in my fate! I can easily recollect when I wrote last and what I. Seems ages ago to me, but I knew I never bid adieu to my musings. And yet scared inside, what if musings parted me forever. Even then I will be eternally grateful for being with me short while and making my life worthwhile.
I remember or rather strain myself to remember the uncertainty. I went through for the past few months. Life was good in those evenings. Perched in the porches with people in the blissful non-chalant ambience with books aside. The ease with which everything went, switching topics, heated arguments, threatening looks, daring to contradict and the never ending Chronic conversations. The transition therefore to follow was unknown then. Nothing remains the same and not everything changes.
I was away for a while. And today I am back, back to being myself. I could only wonder that it was this rain that rained today made me write. Was it a writer’s block that prevented me from pampering the paper? I remember writing in my mind every time when I talk with me as I walk. May be writing warrants a quiet contemplative pensive mood, rather than a talkative walk? May be I can consider sitting in an asana position with pen and paper aside meditating. Dissolving into the surroundings for better contemplation, so that I can wake up and write. Blessed will be the writers when they perform a ‘Puja’ to get their gift in return or still easier is to get a piece of Creative writing with a flick of wand by a non-verbal spell “Amusingness”.
It is the complete participation in life with a genuine interest and keen observation of things around us that evokes the magic of muse. It is the ability to view the subtle trivial beauties of life with an uncanny yet a healthier wonderment. One can easily find these attributes in R K Narayan’s works, one of the greatest writers ever of times. He had his own share of ups and downs in life and having made out of it helped him to prove his inherent nature/ability of being the best story-teller. Yet sometimes it can be a real threat to one’s ability to write, but the only panacea to it is to keep writing no matter what. Great Writers and famous authors always advise amateurs to keep writing to improve, but they tend to forget that writing continuously or continuous writing can turn life to a disaster. Amateurs, unlike me who take the words of such people, “their gurus” seriously, in the other way round, often fall a victim to continuous writing.
Continuous writing should be to give in enough efforts, try new kinds of writing, to attain perfection and not merely to enter Guinness records. There are times when I took continuous writing seriously and wrote pages and pages to stop suddenly to find my fountain pen running out of ink. I couldn’t continue for a simple yet a genuine reason for I couldn’t find an ink-bottle in vicinity; it must be certainly a good day for the papers, for I did hear mutterings of silent prayers for survival. If my guess is right, they ended their jubilant celebrations with an excellent feast.
There are times when my creativity overflowed, overwhelmed with thoughts for I couldn’t write a single line as I didn’t know what to write first. It was like as if all my thoughts in total threatened to desert me if I don’t give them first priority. Trust me. It was the most difficult moment in my life. I realized what a total dumb-bell I am when it comes to choice. I cried, wailed, howled till midnight like a banshee for an unknown, unreasonable reason. I knew that the moment which I feared the most in my life will come true. ‘The death of my writing’. I sat silently mourning for the rest of the night. As the dawn came, I prepared for the rest. Dressed in black, I got out of my house carrying my note-book like a child’s prized possession. On reaching my garden, I began digging a small grave to bury my ‘dead child’. I stood wistfully for hours together; till I realized that I lost something which I should not have. It was a deep peep into the past, reliving the nostalgia. Now I realize that my Reverence was so true that I could have easily composed the ‘World’s Best Elegy’, if I hadn’t buried my ‘Note-book’.
I sincerely regret.
People, especially great writers like me (if I become one) should understand that there are times in life when one cannot write, in spite of all sincere efforts. They should not feel bad or guilt about it; everything happens for a reason (preferably good if taken in the right sense). It cost me my first elegy (The world’s Best) to learn this lesson. For I’ve also learnt another lesson: “Nothing comes free.”
Great moments often catch us unaware, also great pieces are written unaware.
It was in one such moment, though as usual when all my the thoughts in total threatened to desert me if I don’t take one in particular, I came up with my Masterpiece!
I gave in my best efforts and chose none, for I knew all my thoughts are great and why disgrace one by choosing another. And my masterpiece was ready to be printed in the morning. I sent it to publisher (it’s not difficult to find one these days, for they are greatly listed in Yellow pages, it is as easy as getting a cab) who sent it back to me with an enclosed abusive note for wasting his time.
I felt terribly down. Emerson came to my rescue: “To be great is to be misunderstood”.I took the “Blank Paper’, my masterpiece and kept it safely in my diary. For now I knew the truth that I was born ahead of time and my audience is not yet born. I realized that the publisher’s have no literary knowledge or basic literary sense. Had they known Keats “Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter” no publisher would have dared to let go a masterpiece unpublished. A great shame has befallen the literary world. My life of writing for the past one decade minus eight years has seen such many brutal acts of refusal.
It is Frost who keeps my writerly life alive by his quote “And Miles to go before I sleep”.
I realized that if there can be anything more threatening to a writer than Writer’s block, it is the immense difficult art of naming a piece of writing, for writing can be spontaneous, but naming is instantaneous. And here I confess to my unborn audience that it is the Baptist’s block that scares me more than a Writer’s block
addthis_pub = ‘barathwillbe’;
Can anything be more lively than the life which is lived. I ask this question a thousandth time to me, just to make sure that i still don’t have an answer to it, Well At times, the answer to many questions in life is that there is no answer.
But there are many a re-assurances. I knew that, I learnt it… To all those reader-friends cum family. I owe this. I thank for the moral support. Archu, Uma akka, anu akka, rakesh, Vinesh anna, Vins anna, Nikhil, Mili, Priya a.k.a Supergirl, Preethi anni, Jeevan, Sonu, Ritu chechi, Ani, Raj anna, Thanks a ton for staying with the Jobless blog and the wonderful words of comfort. I pray for the strength.
I knew that I’m completely broke when I enter a Bookshop, be it emotionally or financially and that too for a bookphile like me, words just cannot describe the plethora of emotions I go through in me when I’m in a bookshop. From excitement to anxiety, near faintness when I get hold of a book. The joy which cannot contain itself it in me blooms itself into a mischievous knowing smile that I smile inside me. The empty feeling knowing that I’m broke just disappears when I know that I’m in a place surrounded with books. It is not just books, but more to it. A place where the righteous part of me rightfully belongs to. A place that can violently turn into an invisible dagger, which stabs me peacefully with a painful guilt. Wish I can freeze time, so that I can afford to spend a chunk of my life in reading. The Knowing joy that I’m gonna indulge is all the more intoxicating.
What can be done about late assignments? They’re already late. I seek an extension for a submission of an assignment, which should have been submitted last Tuesday. With all due respects, I got an extension till Friday i.e weekend (I consider Friday as weekends which exclusively ends on the eve of Tuesday for me).Considering the fact that Sunday is an holiday and I cannot hand over the paper in person, I naturally have to do that on Monday, which happens to be Diwali back home, I stay back to regale in the regional festival. And Tuesday happens to be Diwali in Andhra plus a local holiday, which pushes me unceremoniously to submit the paper on Wednesday. With all this it just happens to be late by a day. Well now you understand my logic of working and deadlines. Life is made simpler.
There is no downpour here. It looks like a summer, rather feels like summer in the broad daylight and the temperature drops to freeze you at night. No November rain here, only the academic November pain, the last minute rush to call the semester off. I wish for a vacation now. Anybody out there feeling the same. Join the club.
People knew me well. If they thought I had enough and spoke enough. The one obvious question to put me off is, Baratha! What happened to your blog? I knew I had been quite for a long while. But I never intend to be. Well Logged in.
“Barath! wru, drop in our school. Need to talk wid u, reg the docu. C u in 10 mins. Cm fst na.”
“can u cm here n gimme the key.”
“hey u free na, we need to talk abt our proj.”
“chaai kudika poovama?”
well all I could do was. “Yours obediently, Main hoon naa.”
I badly wanna go home. See some tons of missed out movies, leisurely lay back at home, be with puppy, blog till my heart’s content, read n read n read n write. Take a neva-ending vacation, meet grannies, be at the place where I loved and longed to be. Meet people, only the ones who can bring a smile in my face. Go deaf to all others. I wish I can live a life like this at least for a short while. I wish that I could really wish.
Anna moved to Bangalore, appa still doesn’t mind my frequent indulging in books, which means I can indulge more, I learnt that one bad !dea leads to another good !dea. I still didn’t inform many about my recent change from !dea to BSNL. Nik n chundha left to UK. Nishu is quite okay. I seem to be lost in oblivion. Ankit got a new bike. It’s going to be a month that me, adil n winny boy had ice cream ceremoniously (read it three dogs fighting over a family pack). I joined face book. I still haven’t watched dark knight. Annil doesn’t write poems anymore, I don’t talk anything other than CAT to raul, Abbyyy and archu, raj, karthik, sonu and mano are not writing regularly here. Mano missed his train that day. I realized that I didn’t have any crush for the last two months. Met karthik here in Hyderabad after a long time. I still didn’t call up navin anna. I didn’t post that letter still. No signs of fellow ship in the near future. Met diviya at last here in hyderabad itself. Singer senior anna and Psycho-sisters have been out of contact for a long-while. Its Thalai Deepavali for joy anna and janani akka. Does reading of Diwali special editions count under diwali celebrations. Do I have a diwali? I don’t GTalk properly when I’m online.
I plan to write more, but before that Two Term papers, Two presentations, A research project on blogs, a documentary, an exam, semester finals, Some unkempt promises, some broken words and hearts to be mended and put to heal, a wedding to be witnessed, and things to be considered, a past to be shut-out, an effortlessly effort ensured to move-on, a life to live and the side-effects to be experienced. With all this I type this blog post at an unearthly hour making sure that I start my term paper right after this. Take care. Life beckons……
addthis_pub = ‘barathwillbe’;
Well, First and foremost! this post is an exclusive post where I’m gonna ramble, babble, rant and rave, if possible rot away to glory! Do excuse me, ! many would be disappointed, Sorry guys! Life takes me at times, And I just couldnt resist it.. Between all this , I acknowledge my Thanks to Fantasies of Life time for tagging me. That comes next and Thoughts and scribbles for her post. Well Here I ramble…
The maddening hectic week…
Have I got anything in me that makes me work! It would be an irony to tell that Jobless works! but believe me my folks, I did work, also I loved it, It gets into me and I dont have time for anything else… Honestly Who cares! but I didn’t read anything throughout the week and that really puts me off, I easily get worn out!!! It was fun to work on assignments, documentaries, Proposals (???), Treatments, deadlines.. Life with deadlines is no dead, Trust me The fun is immense in that, and that too, to be blessed like me with Lovely teamies… It is indeed fun to work….
You have got a mail…
Tell you something. “You have got a mail.” This is something that one shouldn’t tell someone like me who is obessed with snail mails. I thought I was re-visiting those joyful days, when someone told me that they saw a letter for me in the campus post-office. “I saw a letter, addressed to you.” Oh! God the post office closes by 5 and its 5.30 I have to wait and tomorrow is sunday!! One more day to wait. First thing on monday, went to the PO. The post man didnt arrive yet, thought would check out in my office, No! not to be seen , the post man will be here by 2. “Ji, any letters for Barath?” “Nahin saab”. God!!! What followed was a sad tale, Three days visited the PO and enquired, No letters for you, If at all anything, we would drop it in the office, The other day I got a courier, which someone else collected on my behalf! would the same happened with the letter?
what if the postman dropped it in another school, instead of mine.. It happens sometimes.. Well In between all this, I met the guy who told me that I had a mail.. He wasn’t sure whether the letter was addressed to Barath of communications dept. Hell with it! why should be there only one Barath throughout the campus of 10k people!!! Forget it… I also called some people who had the remotest of possiblities of writing a letter !!!
Guy 1: Barath, you think I have time to write and post, I call you na..
Guy 2: you’re crazy dude!!!
Guy 3: Hey! But I forwaded the alumini letter to your home address.
Guy 4: @$%# you, Do people write???
Forget it guys!!! After a week, I got a letter thru a friend’s friend who had dutifully collected the letter for me only to see that it was a letter addressed to Barath of another dept, who had been hunting for the mail for a week, I returned that to him propmptly…I learnt there is also Joy in Giving letters…, not just receiving
Just the Crazy!!!
1) I was a bit on and off and all the more communication retarded!!! Dad, mom and anna couldn’t reach me, anna got a friend’s number from my roommate and passed the no. to dad,
At around 11.30 at night there was a call to my friend’s no. I saw the no and passed on the mobile to her. she answered the call and passed the phone back to me.
The person on the phone: “This is dad.”
Me : “Well. Whose dad”
The person on the phone who happened to be my dad: ?!!?
2) If someone waves at you and when your both hands are busy holding something, the best way would be to smile to acknolwedge them, Not to try any coffee cup tactics like Jyothika in Kakka Kakka, only to shower yourself with Hot coffee..
3) College Ids card, Petrol cards DON”T work in ATM machines.
4) Never would I indulge in any lingustic adventures like, trying to teach malayalam to any Thick accented people, “what do you tell bol in malayalam”. “Its pa ra.” Well Just imagine what a thick accented voice would have pronounced the word like.. I don’t want to get rusticated from my campus on any account of making sexist remarks by any hard-core feminist groups of the campus followed by a trail with ASHI, ASHA or CASH..
5) I’m unemployed, Literally Jobless. The only employment is me being a son, So next time No unneccessary details to annoy my boss… This works well… DAD, NO MONEY. SEND MONEY.
With all this life goes on…
Suddenly life turned all beautiful and My life is happening, Well The only thing happening in life is Life.. Morning rush hours, Stopping to grab a bite, endless chais, The mad doodles, Readings, sitting under the mother nature, ruminations, reflections, Falling in love (with) documentaries, Movies, Music, Books… The Missing magic of sharing, well there’s always lot more to talk.
I walk through the long paths at nights with the lamp posts, who are well now my good friends, everynight as i return back to my hostel at 1 or 2, I do have conversations with them, whose life is laid-back and a one meant to listen and observe people, How beautiful is this life, Life-another day in paradise.
When the deadlines are dead, shootings shot, Proposals proposed, defence defended. Yeah!!!
Now I know the night is waiting for me, I reach my room, clean up the mess, Fix a drink, plug in my music, Search for my “Srirangathu Devadhaigal.” and about to give into the Night. My Mobile rings, God who on earth would call me now!!! 2.45 am. I see the name, a smile creeps into me, I answer with a twinkle, ” Hulllllooooo!!!” before I could now, an hour passed. We were talking about Harry Potter, He just happened to read HP, and been magically swept by it and now down with the 4th book, I no more feel tired, Well HP does the magic.. And suddenly there’s another Voice greeting, “Happy morning, Barath!” Well Guys we were in a conference call, and the other friend just joined us after an hour break,, Reminded of those days of conference call, where any no from 8 to 13 easily conferences… Three people smitten by potter talking about the magic at the dawn of earth.. Can Life be more beautiful?
“Well Barath, am tired, you guys talk da.. I’ll sleep for a while.” And It easily continues with my briefing him on the background, interesting inside storeis, and everything of Potter.” The call got disconnected, Followed by a message, “Da machaan, Battery over, call you later, Sleep tight 😉 ” Its 6 30 in the morning! am not in a mood to sleep, It has been drizzling all night.. I step out of my hostel, The early morning joggers, few old people walking. There was a freshness in the morning! I walk along the trees, then sit on a small rock under the tree, staring at the small pool of water. Suddenly I remember, ” I do miss talking with him, these days.”
addthis_pub = ‘barathwillbe’;
There was a huge gathering in the church with no signs of joy or merry. There was sadness, more that the sadness, an emptiness in everyone’s face in the congregation gathered around the coffin.
She appeared calmer and prettier than ever. She was dressed in pink, at least now she appeared in the pink of her health. Except for her long battle, she looked like an angel descended from heaven. She wore a rosary bead and there was a genuine smile on her face. The family stood huddled together. Tears trickled down from her mother’s face. She looked ill and fragile in her white sari. Her brother stood next to her mother holding her in his arms.
Her coffin was made of rosewood with medium mahogany, rich colored, double molded furnished with gold fittings neatly lined throughout with interior bed in pink. It had elegantly engraved corner panels furnished with quality handles and screws. She felt more comfortable in her coffin bed. The priests prayed and read out verses from the Bible. The sad singing started again and they sang in chorus the same sad verse again. She lay perfectly in her bed. I could see her smiling charmingly at people, but nobody smiled back. Minutes later, her coffin was lowered into the ground.
I slowly turned back with tears in my eyes and walked to a little distance. Hours before she was alive, her dreams were alive, but now she was still. She had lived for more than twenty years and now she is now more. How could people be so shockingly rude to acknowledge it ? I wonder how someone who lived all her twenty years could disappear on a single day.
I stood there glaring into the woods to awaken myself into the past.
Two years before, we had a party in her honor. People brought gifts, laughed, sang, danced, and hugged the healthy girl. It was not her birthday; the party was given at a hospital to keep her spirits up. I was standing then by her side. She reassured me with the boldness dazzling in her eyes.
Her once athletic body was now swollen and exhausted, stricken by a vicious disease leukemia- an acute form of leukemia. Her white-cell count was 3,00,000- thirty times higher than the normal. A white cell count of 3,00,000 could prove fatal if untreated. More obviously, her bone marrow was manufacturing leukemia cells very rapidly. She was not concerned about her ill health. She just wanted to go home- home to her dog Leila, her friends, and her brother who could tease her out of the most serious mood and make her smile. Most of all she wanted to be with her parents. Her mom in a glance could read her daughter’s face. There was vulnerability and fear, but there was also a look she had seen many times when she was ready at the beginning of a race. She could feel her daughter fortifying herself for the ensuing battle with cancer.
I could see the fear in her face. I understood her prospect of leaving her family; her friends and her life, which scared her deeply. Even with all the trouble, she kept her uneasiness at bay and appeared fully energetic. She played sports, swam, went running in the early morning hours, greeted everyone with a charming hello, walked Leila regularly, took her to the vets and loved her more. Her inner voice didn’t help her in keeping up her faith and spirit. I heard her mom saying that she never complained in any of her chemotherapy sessions. I felt like asking “Didn’t that really hurt you?” or “You didn’t let out a cry!”
She never stopped walking and running – though each day, she fought back the exhaustion of her drug and radiation treatment, her walks grew shorter. She slept, woke, took up phone calls, visited the people she loved and never gave up reading till the end. The therapy exhausted her, bloated her and made her bald. The last day she complained of a heavy heart and that was the final sign that her cocktail treatment of chemicals and radiations didn’t help her. She suffered a terrible pain. She finally fell back to sleep, too tired to live. She breathed her last in her mother’s lap…
Hundreds of people rose to their feet, singing sadly to the music on November 8, the day of her Last Journey.
I walked back to her home. It looked like a deserted house with the sunlight streaming into the living room. I walked straight to her room. Leila followed me. The room appeared lively with pin-ups of her favorite personalities with whom she always lived. There was a photograph of her in a wedding gown. She had a great fascination for dresses. I remembered the words once she uttered to me in shyness. “I want you to be the ‘best man’ in my wedding!” Her table was covered with a stack of letters that she and her siblings wrote to Santa Claus. Her keyboard, her music-system, her PC sat idle. Except for her Bible all her books were set aside.
I walked out to the patio, sat on the ground. Leila came and sat between my legs, licked my face. I hugged her and kissed her head with tears in my eyes.
Life was good with her on a summer porch, endless days filled with sun rays, daydreams, books, music, movies, butterflies and bottomless pitchers of lemon juice. I could never forget the beautiful rendezvous we had, the warm friendship we shared and her twinkling dimple smile. The melody of her voice will echo across oceans and continents traveling through air straight to the hearts of people who knew her well. Let her smile speak merrily to the glow of a million pearls.
I wonder why God chose her for this. I know the drive back to my life will be an endless journey of hurting thoughts and emotions.
I stood there. I didn’t cry because I couldn’t cry. Suddenly all these strange feelings left and my face delighted at seeing Her. She smiled at me and we walked, talking to each other in thoughts….
P.S: To the one who taught me the healing nature of words and the never-tiring attitude of love. Turning twenty six today, No matter where you’re. You are alive in each of us, as Morrie tells, “Death ends a life, not relationships.”