Category: People and life

Random Musings from not so recent past – I


         He wished, it rained yesterday, when he was with him 

         He loved listening to his poetic voice rambling stories of bygone youth, to the music of                      rain drops
         He loved leaning onto his fragile chest and listening to the melody of his heartbeat
         He loved holding his hands and walking in the rain in gay abandon
         He loved to hear him recite Tagore Poems.

         He wished it rained yesterday, for he could have had a last rainy day with his grandpa.



“Like a museum devoted to an absence.”

It’s been almost forty hours since I last slept, the house is in a mess, things strewn around and cupboards all emptied of its contents, pieces of papers lying around. I have checked into the pages of every book, note book and dairies I have ever owned or written in. I frantically flip through the pages, searching for a word, a phrase, a doodle or a code word into which I had once etched and emptied a memory into. A memory of a life-time; love, friendship, devotion, obsession, crush, puppy-love, fondness and affection that crept into me slowly yet slyly, when I was a teen.
A soothing calmness embraces my soul as I think of him.
I remember that winter when I first met him; a boring evening at a cousin’s home, where we gathered for a Christmas carol practice. To be honest, I don’t have a memory-picture of him.  I was hardly thirteen and he was twenty five/twenty six, yet what I remember distinctly was how he and S were holding hands all the time when they were seated among us. All we did was chuckle and giggle whenever they looked at us, smiling. Probably I believe that was my first ever idea or imagination of what it would be, to be in love. I was naive then and much more naiver now.
And it happened that there was always a whooshing of silences and whispers each time, as one of them would walk into the room. It was a common knowledge among us children, that they were in love and were betrothed to each other; a word that I fancied a lot, all through my adolescence. He was at once; this brother, a friend, a partner in crime, a joker, a merry-maker, a charming young man for all the mothers there and to my horror, my first ever adolescent crush. 

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.
Three decades of life passed by; turning me forty five, yet I am that wistful teen still, when his memory crawls into me unaware, as I read this phrase, “Like a museum devoted to an absence.” from the book, After the Crash. My life came crashing down to a stand-still, lost in an abyss of over-whelming desire to know what happened to him after he disappeared from our lives. we all knew what happened to S after two years. A story that cannot be simply summed up in a few sentences and yet it is something that we all learned to live through. 
I feel closer to the memory of my fifteen year old-summer as I close my eyes. I feel the years begin to fade in reverse, blurring my memories, yet reminding me of that ephemeral moment of innocence. That afternoon when a few dozen people walked back from the church after the service, I saw him walk aimlessly along the fence. Leila was tagging along him, with such sadness in her eyes that could only worsen his loss. I saw him, crumble down and lean onto the wall as Leila went and sat between his legs and started to lick his face. He hugged her and kissed her head and broke down, sobbing into her. I watched him from distance and knew for sure then; that I loved him more for what he has been to S in all those years.
Jeevs! I wish you are somewhere safe; tears in my eyes and hands folded in prayer, I send a wishful thought to heaven, that you found/made peace, for I never made mine knowing that you left us. I am a teacher and a parent now; I wishfully look at all my high school kids and wish you were one of them.

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.

in the inner sanctum of the darkest night

an anonymous night

went unheeded…

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?

The Book-Broker

He was new to the place; with hundreds of new faces around, he not only felt new, but also out of place. Still he braced himself for what was ahead in store. With each passing day, he became familiar with the new faces. Soon there would be someone to greet him, smile at him, and stop by to ask, ‘had lunch?’ ‘Do you have class now?’ ‘Nice shirt yaar’, ‘Want to have chai?’ Casual acquaintances do happen this way in a new place.

But still there were few people, who do not need such mere casual niceties. But there was something else; Some other people who took him to them. Kevin, The Great Dane Singer, Nagaraj, Swami, Oliver Twist, Range, Henry, Kalyani, Robert Langdon, Jamie Sullivan, Sparks, Jayakanthan, Harry Potter, Erma Bombeck.

And not to forget Alvin, the cute kid, who lost his family on a Christmas Eve. It was Alvin, who showed a different him to others. People by then knew that he was a story teller. And she loved to listen to his tales. She knew, he is different and all that mattered to him was the words and what they convey to world.

There was this guy and the first novel he brought for him. “The pleasant Interlude”; and from then it was their ritual- A book for every birthday.

Oh! Not to forget how these three met on a mid-night to be introduced as hard cotter potter-maniacs. Be it the mess, corridors, Stone benches, the front shop. They were never tired to carry a conversation of what would happen to Harry and Hogwarts after the death of the beloved Headmaster Dumbledore.

There were a few girls, who met him almost every evening/weekend to get/share/exchange/rob books from him. Also they loved to call him Krishna, for they believed he has a way with girls, but not just with words alone. Those evening spent in the stone benches and those never ending conversations at the girls hostel gate. Girls, it seems had to face a tough time with their infamous warden because of him, as how someone later testified.

Then came two Psycho Seniors. Remember Kevin, not just a problem child in the case of high school shooting, but someone he held close onto and someone who grew on him. She knew that behind this stupidity and Vainokki, rather Bada Jollu Party, there is a sensitized guy.

Not to forget the beautiful world of Malgudi that R K Narayan weaved with his words and imagination, which brought us together and also the hatred of you for poor Ginny, I have never seen anybody so much drooling for our Harry.

Oh! And then the senior and the sister, with whom he had real tough time, when it comes to make her read books, and had to throw up real emotional tantrums to make her read books. Someone who got him Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows on the first day and the last day of his life in Coimbatore.

Pray for me Brother, Gone with the Wind, My Days, and a Readers Digest Edition of A Walk to Remember were their last exchanges. Rather the meen curry and Kari meen at Neyyattinkara.

Have you ever sit on a public place reading a book? Well you would. But have you ever snatched a book from someone when they were deeply immersed in it? And then call your friend and show, “Hey Look, Nicholas sparks.” And still forget that there was a guy standing in front of you, mouth wide open and little intrigued. I know someone, who just got lost in North Carolina then.

A junior, who was introduced as a fellow Potterian and a co-Aquarian, someone who shared the equal madness and passion for books. Someone who made him gift her, Tuesdays with Morrie

And then someone else walks into his life, a junior to start with, and then turning out to be a precious little brother he always longed for. They grew together without books. I remember those Friday evenings when he went to see him off. Those old book stalls, where he leisurely spend an hour or two buying half of dozen of books, only to be snatched/robbed, when he is back to campus.

It rarely happens that he gets to read the book first. It was always made sure that the book is circulated among their reading circle; read by everyone and then promptly returned to him.

Such was the life of The Book Broker.

P.S. To all my Book-Lover friends from PSG… Love you folks…

addthis_pub = ‘barathwillbe’;

Of Writing, Li(v)es, Statement of Purposes

Well, this is indeed a tricky part of admissions to any course, which I am in absolute love with, to write and write. At times what is expected is a profile or simple write-up of why one needs the course in the concerned institute, or how we see ourselves after the course. I don’t want to sound too technical or too much of a know-it-all or teach here, How to write a purposeful Statement of Purpose.

It is indeed a joy and happiness when someone approaches you to help them with something. Way back into years, right from my first year of UG life, I had been this guy, who takes pleasure in anything related to writing, editing and translation. Trust me, had first hands-on experience in editing theses, research proposals (proposals???) research articles, write-ups, essays, resumes, CVs, SOPs.

Remember my Jun N, who is in UK, I remember the excitement when he first told me his plans to go abroad for a masters degree. All the time, we spent in discussing how the SOP should look, the construct, the importance or clarity, conviction and the coherence in the writing. And how he wanted me to sit with him all through the writing process, and it was 3 AM in the morning when he finished. “Bro, here it is, just work on this and change whatever you want to,” Giving me the total autonomy, he slept off. I was rather happy for him, because I took more time to persuade him to write one on his own, rather than going for a consultancy’s ready-made, here-we-serve-your-needs and thus killing the originality of the students. Honesty in Statement of purposes comes from writing what you’re and what you genuinely want to do in life, rather than mere impressive verbose talents

It is such a contagious happiness, when you hear people make it up to their dreams and live the life they imagined. Also it is more an inspiration for me to. May be this is how we grow up with people, seeing their dreams as your own, standing aside and sure by them, cheering up every move, those necessary pats and slaps when needed, and those pep-talks when in really deep-dumps and also the huge throwing up a party to celebrate.

Now I’m at home, looking through a couple of SOPs, and also it is more of a view to someone’s dreams, and I respect each, as I know they are too personal, It takes a lot of courage to actually open our dreams to someone. It is a loving experience to actually read them, help them create the one they need, I sit like that ultra-professional with a sharp HB and an eraser, a thoughtful-I’m-in-work look with an invisible Do-not-dare-to-disturb-me board thrown over me. I soulfully take efforts to just edit the language, the grammar and the mood of the write-up if needed and make the conscious effort to retain the Writer’s tone in it. And it is indeed difficult an effort.

I remember the senior R, indeed a best bhaiya, who often tells me that people take advantage of me, many a times I assured him, not so and I indeed love doing this, I feel people appreciate our work by simply giving us more work. I often think this way, “When there are so many people around, why would someone prefer you over others. It is a confidence that they place on us.” And just play by. The feeling of importance comes from making others feel important.

And when A, got his job, hey I prepared his Resume. And the phone-call, hey dude I made it and the following celebration in that Aavin milk booth, just chai, coffee, Milkova and cookies for rs 289/- and that show-off to my friends that I have a friend who treats his friends in Hotel Residency, a Posh-place in Coimbatore. Actually, that Aavin milk both is just next to the hotel. And this way, our next treats in CAG pride Restaurant and Jenny club went every time someone gets placed.

My talent for writing(sound too much though) goes back to my third standard, when I helped my desk mate D in writing a love-letter to his crush-our senior P, I was caught badly, as I tried to send that letter to her through the Moral Science book, which was accidentally the teachers copy. Hey I still have that letter with me, a very old, badly torn, battered and dog-eared corner of a page torn from the copy-writing book. And also there are few reminders of my talent such as messages that I come up with at times, randomly out of the blue. The text I sent to a friend who was on his first date, the frustrated writings in a boring lecture, the notes sent among the bench-mates, a porn-story I wrote, the first thriller novel, me and alter ego co-authored and of course my first and last love-letter(still in my sent-tems folder)

addthis_pub = ‘barathwillbe’;

For the Love of…

I don’t have a clue, when I fell in love, my first memory of my love dates back to my six or seven years of age, when I first saw my parent’s wedding album. I regretted being not there and determinedly decided that I would sure want my kids to witness my wedding. Brings a stupid smile now. But, Why not???

Well coming back to the wedding album, It was the pictures that I loved the most, The coarse feel of the black and white pictures neatly arranged in the black charts, beautifully bound gives an almost nauseating nostalgic look which slyly creeps into me, making me feel want to live in the bygone times. It is the frozen memories of the past, well hidden from the Wheel of time.

I go to greater extents and take risks to collect copies of photographs of my people. I greatly pester people for their photos, for which many don’t have a clue why I should go gaga over photos. Believe me I have albums of many with me. Somehow I feel a magical connection of going down the memory lane and reliving them when I see the photographs. When I see those pictures, I see their childhood and adolescence unfolding before me- letting me get a glimpse of all the missing pieces that I had only imagined. They affect me in a strange way; I feel neither sadness nor anger for having missed living with them in their yesteryear lives. For I always love to grow up with people.

When I see my parents wedding album, I get a thousand thoughts. Well, for first thing it is love before marriage, then accepted at last by their parents and an arranged marriage. I wonder how my dad would have felt being the groom, knowing that he would be spending the rest of his life, with the person he loved so much. Did he really think then, that he would have a son, who would be writing about his wedding in a blog? How would have my mom felt? Had she ever looked him into his eyes and smiled with a mischievous twinkle full of love? Did she ever have the clue that she is going to be the mom of a son, who considers himself a treasure of their cherished love and wedded bliss?

Well the photograph speaks, each picture has got a thousand stories to tell, If you’re ever a willing patient listener, listen to someone ramble about their youth and blessed will be you, if they have photographs with them when they tell their tales of loved and lived lives. But for me, photographs are just not the magic alone. It is their youth and more importantly having lived their youth in 70s and 80s which I personally consider the golden/classic/ best of times in life.

I am thoroughly in love with the art and literature of 70s and 80s. Be it the movies/music/pictures/literature/persons/advertisements/Television serials, nothing beats the magic of those times for me. May be the black and white print gives a lived-in authenticity to them, And till my ten years of age I believed that Life was in black and white or in grey in 70s and 80s. I visualize how the mountains, lakes and greeneries would have looked in black and white. I visualize life in the metros, sub-urban, abroad and villages alike. I visualize how people would have spent their young and old life in 70s and 80s.
I feel a tugging at my heart with a painful lump forming in my throat and I sigh heavily till the tingling tinge fades away in me. How much I wish, I want to live my life in such a period. I get jealous at people who have lived/spent their youth in those times. Certain Golden olden movies rekindle my longings and stir my heart, making me nostalgic for the past which doesn’t belong to me, a past I partly own. I smile knowing inside that, though I didn’t live then, I belong there completely.

For the simple reason, I believe life was simpler then, people were inherently good and people had time for life’s little things, everyday chattering were part of life then, people had time for humane interactions; families had time for dinners and for gatherings at terrace after dinner, casual acquaintances was more happening than social networking. Neighborhood and life in government quarters gave people to come-together and rejoice in camaraderie. Life was less mechanical, people certainly had the humane touch and more than anything, people wrote letters. Yeah I know, I whine here. But accept me. Just once in your life, realize what I’ve fallen for. Take a paper and write a letter to a dear one, at least a text mail. You will know the magic for yourself.

That was the time when life was not commercialized. I greatly believe that the art of those days celebrated love, people and the human spirit. I believe I’m made of that and made for that. I precisely conclude I’m a person who still live in the black and white times, pen and paper days. My world still counts in 70s and 80s. I take everything possible of me to make life more momentous and memorable with just people and people around. As I know, I’m born to love and I live now to love.

பருவ வயதின் கனவிலே பறந்து திரியும் மனங்களே கவி பாடுங்கள், உறவாடுங்கள்.

“To those hearts, fluttering their dreams in the youth. Sing poems of life and love and celebrate them. “

A new beginning

My Sixth day of staying at home. 
I felt different, for all other times, I had been home. It was just the company of three dogs, a few dozen books, my Ghazal collection, a few friends hanging by home and the otherly men stuff. This time it was all different. Dad called me up, before I left to home. This was our conversation.

Me: Hello dad,

Him: yup febi, how are you?

Me: I didn’t want to make it difficult for him, so I chose to speak for what he had called me in the first place. “fine, I got your mail.”

Him: “I’m sorry about it, hope you don’t mind.” I did sense his hesitation. 

Me: I really mind dad, I just cannot entertain them. (though I felt like shouting those words at him. I didn’t) Instead, “Fine by me, dad”

Him: Thanks Sonny, I appreciate that.

Me: Not a problem, dad….

Him: hmmm… what?

Me: “Drive safe”, I don’t know why I spoke those words.. I never ever remotely spoke to him, liked I cared, in all these years. 

It was a week back.  Dad came home and left. I am here, with his family. It sounds strange to know that my dad has a family, to which I don’t claim to be a member. It was a thorough discomfort to be put up under the same roof, I did felt bad for me, for them and then for us.


I chose to be myself, slept and woke up at my own. She had been not so pushy, but made sure that I was looked after. She got milk to the bed in the morning, prepared vegetable/fruit salads in the noon, got curd and rice for dinner. All through her stay, she avoided rotis, which I’m sure dad would have informed her about my hatredness for roti and aloo. It kind of made me difficult to be at home, for all that she had been to me, I never had a kind word or smile for reciprocation. 

It was good to see a new warmth-filled touch to home, which only a woman-mother can give, the sight of kids at home, running around, keeping Tuffy, leila and Yoppy busy all through the day. They were a bunch of never-tiring-souls. Seeing them in action made me feel good. I remember one noon, when I was about to leave somewhere, I saw the younger one, compelling her mom to take her out to the nearby lake, to which she was blatantly refusing. As I walked by, the little one, shouted, “Can’t chetta take us out in his bike?” 

I noticed that the girl spoke to her mom in Hindi. Till then, I had been in an illusion that she was a Malayalee. She spoke a perfect malayalam. Then I remembered dad, asking me to help her with anything, if she wants, as she was not so fluent with the local language. 

The girl, then  burst into tears and sobbed into her mom’s lap. I looked at her mom, she gave me a embarrassed smile. I went to her and patted the little girl and asked her if she wants to accompany me to the lake. She was all smiles. Before I could turn around, there was the other kid, who ran up to me and held my hand. And she had this beautiful pleading smile on her face, with which all my defense melt away. I suddenly felt like that big bro, whose only duty was to love and give. 

As I kicked my engine and veered off to the gate, the kids were waving frantically at their mom, I saw her, wiping her eyes with the corner of her pallu. It was the first time, I noticed the similarity.  She always wore a cotton Saree. 

I was mad at her, the second day, when I saw her getting out of the master bedroom. I Know it was no business of mine, where she stays, what she does at the house, which ceased to be a home for me. I was frowned up  and I snapped at her the full day for no reasons. I felt bad. I know that I cannot go to her and make it up for my rudeness. 

I had been waiting to grab a chance and these kids made it. 

we returned around five in the evening, with the kids dresses fully wet and smudged with mud. They were holding a bag full of chocolates, cakes and other fruits picked from our woods nearby and started to tell their tales. All through the time of the kid’s narrative excitement, she was looking at me. I could sense the gratitude in her glance. Then I realized how much grounded the kids would have felt, being put up at home. 

Next day morning the kids came to my bed to wake me up. It was nothing new. It would be either yoppy/leila/tuffy who would be doing that every day and wake me up from my paradise-sleep. They woke me up and urged me to get ready, soon they were in the bed, playing and three dogs took turns to lick me out of sleep. I could only choose to get up. 

They took me out that day and wanted me to play with them. I felt awkward first, then felt the child leashing out of me. We were playing football and Yoppy out of no-where brought the water-hose. That handsome-brute loves to get spoiled in water. All through the time, we were playing in the garden, their mom was watching us from the porch. It was the same what my mom did when I played with friends and my kid bro.

That day evening,  I got down to stay in the porch for a while, as it was a moonlit night.  She was sitting at the porch. She greeted me, with her warm smile. I sat beside her. We spoke for the first time.  It was quite a natural conversation. It wonders me to know that she knows a lot about me more than my dad could have ever bothered to know about me. 

It felt good. She thanked me for taking the kids out and playing with them, telling me that they really liked being in my company. I told her that I felt really good and more alive in their company. Then I saw the book  in her lap, “One hundred years of solitude” by Marquez. It was a surprise for me to know that she is a reader. I had seen her other times, either in the kitchen cooking with music plugged in, working in the garden, playing with the dogs, attending her kids, knitting, painting, All these days, I had never seen her hooked to the TV, not even a second.  Something that I had seen only in my mom. 

Could it be that, my dad fell for the same woman in her too as how he fell for a woman thirty years back in my mom ?

For one-thing I never realized that I started considering her mom. And I don’t want to do what I did to my own mom- To hate, for all that she had been to me. It is quite complex to explain everything. The way I loved my mom and the way I wanted my dad and my mom to be together. I didn’t understand them or their love. All I had been was rude and arrogant. I never showed a inkling of love and care to my own mom all through her living years. For all the time I cried every-night, with her next to my room, and never showing my love. My one act of Kindness would have made it easy for both of us, would have healed our bitter-past. Yet I didn’t. 

I don’t want to do the same to her, my mom. My sister’s mom. I don’t want to hurt her anymore. I don’t want to destroy the family as How I brought my own home to ruins. I want to love them. I want to love my dad, love my mom, more than my own mom, as I understand that’s the only way I can seek my mom’s forgiveness. 

I’m tired of a life without a family around. I Hope my dad lets me into his family. 

addthis_pub = ‘barathwillbe’;

The God of small things

No!!! This is not a review of the book, or Am not gonna talk about anything related to the book, There is always a coming back for everything on earth and for everyone… And So for me, for someone who didn’t write anything for ages, It is something little that does the wonder in life,

For I believe that little things matter the most in life.. THE MOST… And I greatly adore/admire/love/respect Arundathi Roy, who christened her book, The God of Small things… Happyness like the sands of the sea is made up of numerous little things, Life is made up of such numerous beautiful little things which make the short while a worth while occasion.

Be it watching a sunset, a cozy conversation over a cup of chai or a little shared dinner, a late night coffee or spending an evening with friends … And when I say friends, It sounds a little tricky… for What is a friend and who is a friend differs a lot in every one’s perspective. Someone who makes you feel good, someone who brings you a smile for no reason, someone who makes you care, go for him/her. Nothing great can define a friend and a friendship … It is often the overstated or the understated…

An unexpected catch up in the canteen, leading to an idle no-sense/no need of a sense/all sense conversation, a small walk the talk/hey am leaving/ hey see the sun/

A path through the dried grass, thoroughly littered with shit and shattered glass, and the tall bushes and tress, a careful walk among the once lush greenery, leading to the lake, the dried patch of the earth, a small make-over place to sit, a amateur flutist trying his level best to play sound and a musical response from the cuckoo or a peacock…. Watching the blue hues turn to the orange hues as the clouds magically sweep the sun home, the birds flying home in the V direction, the frogs croaking in the lake, a duck paddling its way to and fro, a small bird searching for the fish, the buffaloes grazing lazily, three friends chatting over, one desperately trying to play flute, the other playing and singing songs and the third other ever innocently watching the stupid acts of the two guys… One thing leading to the other, a talk about Tamil movies, One animatedly talking about her love for Tamil movies, and how she likes the dance of the actor Vijay *Sigh*,, Hey indeed Vijay a great dancer, but actor….. oh My God……

Then a photo session to follow, Oh! how much I love to click people,,, The most beautiful moments captured in the camera and frozen in the mind and every picture tells a story, how the picture was taken, what happened before, during and after… Listening to the old songs, the English rapp, malayalam Naadan pattukal, the Hindu devotional songs, Suprabhatam, “The best way to,” ….. get up in the morning, completes your friend.. How true, The joy of getting up early in the morning to the sound of the magical muse…. Some things just happen… The accidental meeting, the unplanned act of sitting together and watching the sun-set…

An unexpected Gift(s), The most beautiful thing in life is surprise, and the next wonderful thing is being surrounded with people who surprises you… An Unexpected gift, that too a book, It indeed feels great when someone gifts, and then a long ago requested cloth bag…. I felt so good…. An unexpected phone call, when you were busy sharing dinner, what feel is that when you turn into kids and share food, in spite fighting over the fish pieces and still sharing leaving the little for the sure-late-comer….

And a phone call to talk/share/ramble on about the recent Jayakanthan book read.. The Characters Ganga/Henry/Ranga/Kalyani who teach you what life is, An author with a fatherly concern who teaches you the healthy view of life, a non-judgemental writer, the greatest humanist-ever, and therapeutic words brimming with love. Jayakanathan, You made me a human… And tons of Thanks to JB Ma’am for having introducing this legend in my life….

What more can be asked in life than love, people, books, music and certain other little which you love the most and that makes life the more meaning full… They make you passionate and compassionate enough. What more is needed in life than to live life with love? What more can life be? when you’re surrounded by people whom you love and people who love you?

What more can be asked in life, when you know that life is in the little moments of happyness and life is only when you live, As Anu akka says,”what more life can be, when you have learnt, how to romance life…”

We’re conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware – beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a “small one.”

P.S1.Well I Thank Nikhil for His , Honest Blogger Award that He bestowed upon this Humble Blog And his Cho cho cho chweet words for me

“the tamil payyan-most men aren even half as honest as he is in his space,the longest posts in ma blgroll which is quite superb though you tend to struggle for words thaks to the sheer magnitude of his posts,fun loving,humorous and sexy.. :p).”

P.S2. And if you have noticed I had changed the blog name from Musings to Musings of a true believer. People Who knows me well, Know well about this Incurable optimist too and I believe that I’m a true Believer, an Inspiration from Nicholas Sparks..

P.S3. And, Recently I had been asked by a good friend of mine, to actually confess (anything) in my blog, I remember telling this to a friend, followed by a roar of laughter. But I believe in this still …, “I want to read with my lady-love, A walk to Remember in my first night and cry.” It’s now left to you to imagine, what kind of a man would want to read in his Nuptial Night……

P.S4. This post is dedicated to all my friends who have been with/through me, eternally.

Its raining in my mirage

It was a great surprise to know that I was awarded by Ani It was a great feeling to be awarded by famous bloggers and also someone lovely like Ani. Thanks a ton Ani buddy!!!! and also for her kind words of love and comfort.

And I would like to award this blog to the following lovely bloggers.

8) Sonu
9) Rakesh

How much Once I longed for one, that i decided to create one by my own and send it to a friend and ask him to pass that to me back through another.. crazy days,, Then it all happened. The wonders of the people, I met here and their constant encouragement, love and support which made me go on. Without them, I wouldn’t have made out.. Thanks a ton. Love you all.

Then it rained. It actually rained awards in my blog. The Freedom and independent award from Rakesh chetta. His always wonderful words of wisdom, love and encouragement to which i am greatly indebted to. I thank him for this thoughtful gesture. It means a lot bro..

Which I would like to forward to the following bloggers.
1) Vinesh anna– Orange Juice for the soul. No wonder I made it my daily habit to have an ounce of orange Juice.
2) Samby Boy– The army Guy speaks.. An inspiring Blog that I read entirely at one go.. Salute you bhaiya.
3) Vicky– Amazwi. Amazwi in zulu means a consortium of voices. An indeed refreshing blog and the first friend for Life, I made in the blogosphere..
4) Ritu chechi– Vivify. The first inspiring reader of my blog.
5) Minko– Born of Mind. The friend, senior, companion, A musician, A physicist, A brother- The First inspiration.
6) Milinta. A kaleidoscope of thoughts and emotions… For her beautiful thoughts. I wish you write more
7) Anu akka Anonymously yours. She has the knack of being anonymous. One touching post I came across and it just continues..

P.S. It is my lil bro Raul’s birthday today and he turned twenty.. Oh How sad the lil guy was for the end of his teen years.. Hey raul.. Happy Returns of the day… I, better should write an exclusive post on him.. It follows.. BTW… did I tell John Abraham also celebrates his birthday today and JA actually looks like raul a bit-more .. ..
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A memory called Mano anna

This is a story, I wrote for my friend’s blog. With his permission, I present the same here. Hope you like this… 

Recounting memories of someone is a tiring process, yet there are certain memories, when cherished creates rainbows of myriad hues with subtle shades of different emotions in the mind. It gives the true delight of life, which soothingly embraces the soul. One such memory is Mano anna.

There was no one in the street who didn’t know him, the mechanic Manoharan. Everyone calls him, ‘dey mechanic’. Dad and mom call him ‘mano thambi’. To me, he is mano anna, my mano anna. 

I met him when I was six or seven years old. He was six years elder than me.

I am the only child at home. I can be spotted either roaming in the street, fighting with older boys, or in the mechanic shed after my school hours. There were at least a dozen kids and it was natural for us to squabble one thousand times each day. Though I got along well with everyone, I spend most of my time in Mano anna’s mechanic shop. At 15 he was the owner of this shop. Mano anna, unlike me doesn’t speak much. 

He is very soft spoken, who never loses him when dealing with people. He can be always seen working, with those grease stains all over him. All he knew in his life was his mechanic shop, his motor bike, his Bible, his harmonica, his volley ball and his few friends. He had an elder sister, who was studying in Chennai then. He earned and spent everything for her. And Whatever he is, to me, Mano anna is my good friend, a brother and my first male companion. 

I spent my childhood days in his company and grew up with him. My parents never objected or had problems with this. My grand-ma didn’t like me spending time with mano anna. There were times when she was rude and shouted at him for no reasons. I appreciated my parent’s efforts to pacify her, but every time they fail miserably in their mission. I had no problems over anything. I hate my grand-ma for her constant surveillance on me and her endless preaching on how-to-be-a-girl. I remember her constantly telling me that it is not good for a girl to have friendships with boys. I can very well understand my grand-ma. To her, her views and perceptions were right and hence she was reasonable. But I never personally believed in all that she told me.

I passed out of the school and took admission in the college. When I was in second year, mano anna got his sister married off .Things changed between us. He didn’t like me spending much time in the shop, rather never encouraged me. But he and our relationship remained the same. He will come to our home once in a while to help my dad and my mom in their usual chores. There was this one thing that I always wonder about him. He never went further our sitting room in our home and even when my mom insisted on eating with us on any festivals, he never accepted the invitation. He would always excuse himself and get the feast packed to eat in the shop with other workers.

And my mom for every Easter and Christmas would specially cook spice stuffed oil brinjal, puliogare, drumstick curry and pappads for him. I could only smile pitifully for him at the very thought of seeing him miss all the wonderful non-vegetarian feasts. I loved my mom more for what she has been to him in all those years. 

When I was in Mumbai, I got his wedding invitation. I couldn’t attend his marriage for some reasons. I met Mano anna lastly in my marriage. He was there with his wife and his girl child. It felt good to see him after a long time. His child was six years old. He had named her, ‘Avantika’. I remembered my childhood days with mano anna. I met him, first when I was six years old. 

I couldn’t help but smile with tears for all that Mano anna had given me in my life- including my name for his daughter 

Now, two decades of life went turning me forty five. Life blessed me with two boys and a girl. Whenever I see my eldest son and daughter together, I’m reminded of Mano anna and me. I can now tell my grand-ma that my relationship with mano anna gave me a healthy view of men and women relationships. It helped me to trust men and understand that they are different and not bad. He taught me how important it is for women to be courageous in life. And I teach my kids responsibility for I’ve seen what it is to be responsible even in one’s young age.

I remember those days of my life, when I’m in the mechanic shop with mano anna, busy in his work. The only emotion I remember of Mano anna is how I cried softly when I first listened to his harmonicas magic. The only memory that lingers in my mind is the expression in Mano Anna’s face as he wipes the grease in his face with the back of his hand.

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