My blogging here comes to an end

Before I continue further, let me clarify. My blogging here comes to an end. But I would continue blogging on this new site.

Why the change?

From a blogging perspective, I wanted to switch to a more professional and customizable design. That is easier on WordPress - the blogging domain of my new site.

From a personal standpoint, I had reached that point in life when we wish we got an opportunity to start things anew.

Having said that, this blog would always hold a special place in my life. For about 6 years, it let me understand life and myself better. For about 6 years, it acted as a conversation-starter after long gaps in many of my friendships. For about 6 years, it added meaning to my life.

I would always be grateful to this site for that.

And I am equally grateful to all of you who were generous enough to spend your precious time on my writings, and were even more generous to send a message when you liked a piece or found something relatable.

Thank you. 

The houses I have lived in

I wonder if the houses I have previously lived in would remember me.

Would the ceilings remember the times I erupted in celebration? Would the floors remember the tears shed during times of distress? Would the windows remember my yearning for a journey, and would the doors remember my yearning to stay indoors? Would the kitchens remember my never-ending hunger, and would the balconies remember my slowly-diminishing anger? Would the cupboards remember the scent of my clothes, and would the racks remember the stories in my books? Would the ceiling-fans remember my exhaustions, and would the night lamps remember my dreams?
Maybe they would. Maybe they wouldn't.

But I am sure that a visit to these houses will help me remember a part of myself that has been comfortably forgotten in the pursuit of the present. The visit might even help me remember some dreams I have forgotten, some promises I have broken, and some relationships I have left behind.

Isn't that the scary part of facing our past? Along with our growth, it also shows us the price we have had to pay. The price of progress.

"The magnitude of a progress is gauged by the greatness of the sacrifice that it requires," said Friedrich Nietzsche.
Some of us can gauge our progress by the houses we have left behind. Perhaps, also by the dreams and promises and relationships that are slowly peeling off the long forgotten walls.

The wrinkles of my grandmother

Yesterday, my grandmother turned 78. As I sat beside her, listening to her animated recollections of her earlier birthdays, I could not help noticing her silver hair strands that danced to the tunes of the ceiling fan. But more than her hair strands, her wrinkled skin captivated me. I ran my fingers through those layers of life. As I passed wrinkle after wrinkle, I wondered if there lay a story behind each one. Stories that could not be shared. Stories that would not be heard.
Maybe the wrinkles signified moments that could not be gotten back. Moments that engulfed joy. Moments that contained tears. Could wrinkles be categorized as happy wrinkles and sad wrinkles? Could joy create a wrinkle? Perhaps joy that is always followed by a feeling of separation could.
Maybe the wrinkles signified places that could not be revisited. Places with walls and doors and shelves made out of memories. Places without walls and doors and shelves that opened out as an ode to nature.
Maybe the wrinkles signified people who could not be gotten back. People who are loved as if they had been a part of our past lives. People who are not-so-loved as if they had come about as a result of our past lives.
I ran my fingers through those layers of life. What did those wrinkles hide? I paid attention to her face and looking at the wrinkles that adorned her cheeks, originating below her dreamy eyes, I caught hold of an answer.
Maybe the wrinkles signified unfulfilled desires that could not be divorced.

Understanding old age - II

After the visit of any family friend or relative to my home, a sweet box would rest at the center of the dining table as a token of their love. My mom and I would stand waiting for the disappearance of the guest beyond the main gate of the apartment after which, we would immediately pounce upon the sweet box. Irrespective of the kind of the sweet, there would always be a fight. And the fights only worsened if the sweets were either rasgullas or kaju katlis.
"You are a mother! You should sacrifice for your son - not snatch from him" I would shout. "I am a mother who has raised her son to be independent. So get your own sweet" she would retort and hurriedly stuff a sweet in her mouth.
A cold-war atmosphere would prevail at home till the sweet box turned empty. The sweets would go decreasing in number but either of us would not know when the other person ate the sweets in question. The most important mission would always be the final sweet - Achieving victory would mean fooling the other person with a closed-and-intact empty sweet box.

During my visit to home last weekend, I noticed a sweet box, filled with assorted milk sweets, resting on the dining table. The day progressed but I did not find the sweets go missing. 
Tea time arrived. I opened the sweet box declaring direct war. My mom responded with a smile and walked to the kitchen, returning with a plastic container. She sat down with her tea cup and opened the container. Out came a Vita Marie Gold biscuit packet. I threw a nasty look at her. Noticing my look, she explained, "The doctor has advised me against having sweets". 
I threw a nastier look and pushed the sweet box towards her. She refused. 
For what maybe the first time in my life, I could not finish the sweet I was eating and placed the rest of the sweet in the sweet box and closed it. "Don't try to act emotional. Just go ahead and have that sweet", my mom teased me. I threw the nastiest look possible and snatched a biscuit from her hand. 
The half-eaten sweet did not matter anymore because it had never been about the sweet.

I had always fought with my mom over a sweet or a chocolate without foreseeing that a day would come when our food habits would start differing.
No matter how close a friend a mother stays, time always has the knack of hitting you on your head and making you realize that she is eventually a mother.

Nameless

"What about that guy in the blue shirt?" he asked her
She concentrated hard, on the guy and his cigarette
The lines forming on her forehead reminded him
Of his cursive writing practices and his childhood poems
"He should be a Mahesh" she finally announced
Immediately, he disagreed
Not because he wanted to but simply because he liked to
Theirs had been a bonding built upon arguments
"Absolutely not. He, clearly, is an Arjun" he said
She threw him a stare that made him wonder
If it was the same stare she threw her mirror every morning
Examining that sleep had not turned her into a different person
He opened his mouth to continue the game
But she placed her index finger to latch his lips
"It is a beautiful night" she said
He shut up, letting silence seep in the small space between their shoulders.

The breeze blowing on their faces seemed introverted
There was more intent than what was expressed
A streak of red was visible across the sky
Maybe from the taillights of all the vehicles lined up in traffic to reach home
The people around seemed busier than usual
Like they always do when we live through our favorite moments
"Why should everything have a name?" she asked
Her questions were always abstract, deep and sudden
Like the questions of most little kids
And he always found it impossible to conceal his amazement
Like the immediate reactions of most proud fathers
"Not everything has a name. Look at the stars. Look at the plants..." he replied
Her face immediately lit up in its usual way
Her eyes closing like the leaves of a touch-me-not plant
Her smile growing like a crescent moon
"... or for a simpler answer, just look at us" he finished
Her widespread smile lessened to a grateful one
A thin layer of water appeared over eyes, making them shiny
He loved the layer for it always showed him what she did not share
She slowly bent her head down, registering the moment in her mind
Their shoulders touched, like the ends of unobserved earphones meet
The breeze blew harder, letting a hair strand from her head
Encircle itself over his fingers
He looked at her lowered head
Her hair strands and her stories seemed infinite
Similar was the warmth blooming inside him
He had previously felt it in his mother's womb.

A friend gets married...

She was the most beautiful person in the marriage hall
She also seemed the most anxious
I tried inquiring about it to her garland and her ornaments

But they were too busy posing for the photographs
Oh! The photographs and the photographers!
Did they not know that she liked posing with her head tilted?
And the priest! Why did he have to be the only one singing verse after verse?
I badly wanted to shut his mouth and make my friend sing
Her song would have been a sunflower shining in the moonlight
Her song would have been a young boy's laughter in a military camp
Her song would have been a rabbit running around the marriage hall
But slokas and traditions had to precede talent
An amazing singer had to remain silent as her marriage music played on.

I recall the gifting / photography session
The gifts served as the entry tickets to be a part of the marriage album
What if my friends and I had gone without a gift?
All we had wanted had been to see our princess become a queen
But a gift we had - perhaps a formality, perhaps a happy reminder when dusted years later
Though who were we fooling?
Would she have wanted a better reminder than glancing at us from her wedding stage?
What would have run in her mind during that momentary glance?
The lunches we all shared? The fights we all fought? 
The birthdays we all celebrated? Our favorite spot at our college?
We had often debated as to who in our gang would get married first
And there she was, the smiling winner
A few feet away we all stood, happy, proud and emotional...

I recall the gifting / photography session
It reminded me of my school annual days
Climb up the stage, shake hands with a smile, pose with the prize, climb down the stage
All of a sudden, a 25 member gang rushed on to the stage
Similar to the energetic crowd surrounding the news reporter reporting live from a location
The gang positioned itself around the couple, all smiles
As my friend smiled at them politely and as her husband let out a hearty laugh
I realized that it was the husband's family
I looked at my friend amidst the 25 people and felt my heart becoming heavier
She had always found it difficult to select a dish in the college canteen without the gang's help
And there she was, prepared to serve this new family with joy 
A few feet away I stood, happy, proud and emotional...

I recall the gifting / photography session
My friends and I also climbed up that stage and we also handed over a gift
But we did not want to climb down - Her eyes would not let us
We knew she had so much to share, so much to laugh and cry about
Seated in a circle on the stage, sharing the marriage meal
Our gang could have relived the past once more
But then it hit us - Beside her was standing her new friend
We wanted to share a few tips with him
We did not, knowing it would spoil the fun
Letting the new love blossom, my friends and I stepped down.

Understanding birthdays

First came the birthdays when I really did not understand what was happening around me. There would be new clothes and new toys. There would be balloons and glitter. There would be extra pinching-of-the-cheeks. There would be my recitation of the same nursery rhyme over and over and over. There would be that 10-years-elder-to-me girl angel from the neighboring flat. 

Then came the birthdays when I had to answer the very important question from my mom.

"What do you want - Coffee bite? Eclairs? Alpenliebe?"

The answer mattered a lot because the toffee had to be one that would be loved by my entire class - not to mention my favorite teacher angel, by my entire apartment, by all the neighboring kids joining me in the playground. 

During those birthdays, whenever I walked around my class to distribute chocolates during the lunch hour, I got more excited when I noticed that a classmate was not at his/her bench. It presented me an opportunity to place a couple of toffees inside the desk and offer the classmate a tiny surprise. 

Many a time, we make the mistake of assuming that only the person celebrating the birthday needs to be surprised.

Surprises never require occasions.

Then came the birthdays when the birthday dress attained gargantuan importance - Because it had to be worn to school, and more importantly, because it had to be worn before that angel seated in the corner desk of my class. 

There would be the realization that I looked awkwardly fat but there would also be the hope that my new birthday dress would make me appear as cool as Prince Adam in He-Man.

There would be a very calculated attempt to enter the classroom as late as possible. That walk, in the birthday dress, from the classroom doorway to my desk would make all the hero-introduction scenes of Tamil films shy away in shame. 

Then came the birthdays when the expectation of gifts arose, accompanied by the fear of treats. 

When a good friend forgot to wish on a birthday, the forgetfulness threw away a hint of a big surprise that lay ahead. When a good friend forgot to wish on a birthday and there turned out to be no big surprise, the ensuing fight ensured that the friendship grew stronger. 

As the friend circle grew, the number of wishes via text messages, Facebook messages and WhatsApp messages increased. But what always remained interesting was seeing how the really dear friends - the ones who had gotten so close that hearing them wish 'Happy birthday' seemed awkward - reacted to me turning a year older.

I will always cherish all their reactions.

Then came the birthday that was yesterday.

Thinking about it day before yesterday had given me a strange feeling. 

I was not going to be at school. I was not going to be at college. I was not going to be at office. I was not going to be with any group of friends. I was not going to be with my cousins. I was going to be at home with my mom and grandmother. 

I had not had the slightest of doubts regarding the affection that would be showered at home. But I had reserved doubts regarding the affection I might miss, not being in the vicinity of friends. 

And yesterday taught me a number of lessons.
Our aunts and uncles deserve to be loved more than they are - They love us more than we deserve to be.

A text message is no way lesser to a phone call. 

A friend who had called to wish and had fumbled a couple of minutes later, running out of topics, is no way lesser to a friend who, after a 30 minute call, had wanted to meet in person because there was so much left to talk. 

A friend who had called yesterday night, apologizing for the delay, holds the same amount of affection as the friend who had wished late night the day before yesterday, afraid that sleep might overcome the love. 

A friend who had forgotten to wish is still a friend one has to be grateful for - The absence of the wish only suggested that the person's love is stronger than his/her memory.

Prioritizing one's work over a loved one's birthday never meant disrespect to the latter - It just signaled survival. 

Most of us set out on a journey to find an angel, leaving behind the real angels at home.

P.S.: An extra-special lesson - Love never gives a damn about geographical distances - A friend from the United States, a friend from Tanjore and a friend from the neighboring street stood testimony to this.

Notes & thoughts from a short trip - II

On the lookout for a miracle

Whenever I travel in a bus at nighttime, I keep staring outside the window, looking out for solitary lampposts and lonely huts. Such sights offer me a feeling I experience when I discover a child's drawing on a paper used to bundle up groceries.

But last weekend, as my bus spiraled on its way to Gokarna, I was on the lookout for ghosts.

I do not know how ghosts look but I continued looking for a flickering white light, for a body-less being, for a soft whisper with a mild fragrance.
It was not a want for a cheap scare. It was just a desperate need for some sort of a miracle.

If not for ghosts, I was ready to make do even with a God. But either refused to show up and all that lay ahead was just a beautiful trip.

****

Finding a place to stay

Restroom.

That seemed the priority. The living room could be compromised with. A night's sleep held lesser importance than a day's dump.

It made me wonder about the significance given to the living rooms and bedrooms in our houses. All the fancy furniture, the wall hangings, the show pieces - To a weary traveler, all these would seem as unimportant as the stairway in a 30 storied building. 

Aren't we all weary travelers, some literally and some metaphorically, in our daily lives?

****

Eating mindfully

Lemon-ginger-honey tea and mashed potato with butter. 

Possibly, the simplest of dishes one could order on a vacation. But sitting on an old plastic chair, behind an old plastic table, in an old and tiny cafe, with the Arabian sea before me, it was the best dish I had had in a long time.

There was no deliverable waiting. There was no meeting scheduled. There was no hint of sleep trying to overcome me. Every spoonful of the mashed potato and every sip of the lemon-ginger-honey tea lived its entire life in my mouth. Their travel down my throat was in rhythm with the receding waves. 

No gobbling up. No hurried swallowing. I managed to eat, after a long time.

****

The waves

Why do we like waves?
Is it because, unlike us, they cannot be controlled?
Is it because, like a pleasant dream, they come to us voluntarily yet do not let us lock them?
Is it because, like really good friends, they keep coming back to the shore though the shore does not make an effort to hold them?

Is it because they dance so well?
Is it because, deep down, we are still the underwater micro organism that started evolution?

Is it because, like many of us, they are the creators and destroyers of their own lives?

Why do we like waves?

****

Sunset/Sunrise

My brother and I were seated on a rock formation at the Om beach. We were waiting for the sunset. The two of us sat beside each other, sharing silence. The two writers that we are, that evening, we did not find the need for words. 

The sun slowly started sinking in to the sea. I hurriedly grabbed my mobile phone and played 'Oru deivam thantha poove'. Halfway through the song, the sun disappeared. But at the very moment the bright orange ball left my sight, I realized why I loved sunsets and sunrises.

No matter how bad things are, no matter how good things are, the sunsets and the sunrises would go on. A bad day always has to end and a good day always has to start.

The next day, before the break of the dawn, I rushed to the Kudle beach and into the waves. There was no one around. I stood knee-deep amidst the waves, not knowing if I preferred darkness or light. The sun started its majestic rise. I hurriedly grabbed my mobile phone and played 'Oru deivam thantha poove'. 

A feeling of warmth started seeping in.

Sharing secrets

As I stood at the Murdeshwar beach eating cotton candy, and on my way to the temple, my focus was only on the gigantic Shiva statue, seated in penance.  

Man had built a remarkable statue of God to serve as a constant reminder of man's greatness.

But after I entered the temple, the large Nandi statue grabbed my attention. I remembered what my mom had told me in my childhood. 

"If you desperately want something to happen, whisper it in Nandi's ears like a secret. Nandi has the power to make it happen".

As I walked closer to Nandi, I realized that I did not want to share my wants. Instead, I had a bag full of secrets. I unloaded the bag and handed over the secrets to Nandi. 

It felt really good catching up with an old friend.

O Captain! My Captain! - II

Last evening, I stood in the smoking area outside my organization, with my first manager who was quitting. As I stood there, I was reminded of my first day in my first project. My manager had taken me that day to the very same spot. 

That first day. That first conversation.
"I want to know more about you. Tell me about the things you are really passionate about" he asked me, lighting up his cigarette. I was surprised. A few hours earlier, I had spoken about my hobbies when I had been asked to introduce myself to the team working on my first project. 
I suspected that my manager had not paid attention when I had mentioned my interests. I started explaining him my field of passion and its reason. He listened patiently, with a tinge of wonder visible in his eyes. I expected him to interrupt me and put forward his opinion. He did not. I continued talking. He continued listening. "You should interrupt now! You should want to say something! You are a manager!" I kept thinking, as I talked on. He never interrupted me. 
I did not understand. I was a kid fresh out of college, still unsure of even his Facebook profile picture. And he was a manager with 3-and-odd years of experience in my organization. What was he doing, spending his valuable time, listening to a kid blabbering about French and Italian cinema?
My brain was burning out faster than his cigarette, in confusion.
And then he started talking. His response showed how genuinely he had listened to me. I was taken aback. I was also glad. How many employees can boast of having had their first manager as someone who knew how to listen and was genuinely invested in each and every member of the team?
That evening, after that 30-minute conversation, I seriously considered taking up smoking just so I could become his smoking-buddy.

****

After I had decided to type a post about my first manager, I was unclear as to the structure or narrative. There were memories aplenty from his beloved Microsoft mobile to the balcony-entrance of his ground-floor flat to his secret crush on 9GAG. But an all-joining thread was required. 
Strangely, before the narrative could fall in place, the title began barking at me. I tried shoo'ing it away saying that I needed the content first. But it continued barking. I then paused and listened to the title. The barking made sense.
The earlier post where I had used the title had been a piece about Robin Williams. 
My first manager is a Robin Williams in his own way.
The enthusiasm of an Adrian Cronauer of Good Morning, Vietnam or of the Genie of Aladdin. The urge to inspire of a John Keating of Dead Poets Society. The patience and care of a Sean Maguire of Good Will Hunting. 
  
Also, the words of Whitman's poem keep coming back.
..The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won..
..Rise up - for you the flag is flung - for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths - for you the shores a-crowding..
My manager was never a man to stay behind for the laurels. He stepped aside after doling out enough inspiration. 
A teacher to the truest sense.

****

Last evening, I stood in the smoking area outside my organization, with my first manager who was quitting. In the brief moments of silence that lingered amidst reminiscing the old days, I remembered the effort he had put in to make this shy, silent, introverted kid get comfortable with his team. That had made all the difference between me loving/hating a job I had accepted not because of my want, but because of my need.

As it was time to finally part, I shook my manager's hand and said, "All the best".
My final words to him have been troubling me since then.
I should have said "Thank you". 
He deserved it. And a lot more.

Demonetization and a dear friend

It was November 9. Around 10:30 PM.
A very dear friend of mine called me. "Are you still at office?", he asked. I had left office early that day and I told him the same. He used a few curse words hearing that. "I reached home just now", he replied, as an explanation to his curse words. I couldn't help let out a chuckle.
I did not have to ask him the reason for his late home-coming that day. The previous day, the Indian Prime Minister had made an unexpected declaration of demonetizing 500 and 1000 rupee notes. And I knew that the bank employees were going to take the worst hit. One of whom was my dear friend.

"You should have seen every person's face as he/she placed the 500 and 1000 rupee notes on top of my counter. Some had mud over them. Some had rice dust. It felt like being in a Shankar movie", my friend narrated his story excitedly. I felt happy for him.
"As I sat down to tally the day's collection by evening, though I was extremely tired, I also felt mildly proud. Who would have thought I would be entrusted with such responsibilities?", he asked, triumphantly, before ending the call. "Really good for you!" I told him.
"You have no idea how proud I feel of you", I wanted to tell him but I did not.

Some friendships do not require you to tell everything. The things that you leave unsaid carry deeper meaning.

****

I remember vividly the last month of the last semester at my college.
Slam books were passed around. Apologies were thrown around. A few late realizations. A few not-so-late proposals. Selfies with favorite professors. Selfies with favorite buildings.
In the midst of such happenings, one late evening, my dear friend and I were seated on a stone bench.
"How do you foresee our futures, 5-10 years down the lane?" my friend asked me, expecting something philosophical. "I do not know", I replied, being my most philosophical.
It irritated him.
"Do you suppose we should have chosen easier fields of interest?" he asked me, smiling. 

Maybe. Maybe not. I did not know. 

I had fallen in love with cinema. He, with the Indian army. I badly wanted him to become a soldier and he wished with all his heart that I become a filmmaker some day. But both of us knew that long and dusty roads lay before us. We were also aware of our prior dreams and their success ratio. 

"Even now, it isn't late to change our fields of interest. But imagine this - What if we fail even in those easier ones?" I asked him. He let out a chuckle.

An awkward silence followed.

"Do you know what angers me the most?", my friend questioned and continued, "I see a lot many people who very easily get what they want. And most of them are no way closer to being as good-hearted, as helpful as me or you."  

I looked at him helplessly.

"They keep mentioning karma. They keep telling that good things happen to good people. But I rarely see these sayings come true. Can you recall something in your life that you had wanted very badly and it had turned out the exact way that you had wanted?" he asked me. I had no answer. 

The awkward silence prevailed again. 

"I guess that is how life is meant to be. If things had happened according to my plan and want, I would have never joined this college and we would have never had this conversation" I broke the silence. 

My friend did not find my answer good enough.

"Do you fear that we are going to fail in the pursuit of our passions?" I asked him finally. He chose not to reply. 

"Well, I do not know about you. But I am pretty sure that I am getting an Oscar" I told him. He gave me a puzzled look and in a few seconds, we started laughing.

"And I am pretty sure that you would succeed before me" I wanted to tell him, after the laughter, but I did not.

Some friendships do not require you to tell everything. The things that you leave unsaid carry deeper meaning. 

****

It was November 19. Around 01:00 AM.

I was on my way to Chennai in a government bus. Lonely huts and lonelier lampposts kept passing my window as Rahman's music kept me awake. My mobile screen suddenly flashed to indicate the arrival of a new mail. It was from my dear friend.

He had written how his banking life had been turned upside down after the demonetizing order and how his pride had increased by being a part of a movement that would reform India. 

I felt really happy for him. Also, a bit envious. 

Though he had not been positioned at the country's borders, though he had not been armed with rifles, though he had not been fighting for his life day after day, he had marched closer to his dream. In the end, it had always been about serving the nation.

"Karma exists. Good things happen to good people. Thanks for making me believe" - I wanted to send him a reply but I did not.

Some friendships do not require you to tell everything. The things that you leave unsaid carry deeper meaning. 

But then, there is also no harm in putting it all out once in a while. 

There is a want...

There is a want for silence.
Not for the noiselessness. But just to scream.
It will not be one of pain. Nor one of anger.
Sometimes, it is just a want, indifferently.

There is a want for a mild breeze.
Not to avoid the mighty wind. But just to hear the brown leaves in an old tree rustle.
Just to see the hair strands exhibit courage and dangle over her face.
Sometimes, environmental motion helps the paralyzed mind march ahead.

There is a want for the evening.
Not to avoid the morning's expectations. Not to evade the night's weariness.
But an evening has its charm. It makes you hope for a little more before the end.
It shines upon you the last ray of hope before darkness descends.
Sometimes, it is just a want, indifferently.

There is a want for the guitar's strumming.
Not to avoid the melancholy of a violin. Nor the celebration of a drum.
But pulling the string tugs at the heart. Pulling the string creates tension.
Even the emptiness inside an acoustic guitar has a rhythm.
Even an unattached string will find its company.

There is a want for irreverence.

Why should there be a pattern? Why a meaning?
Life is not always a chain of events.
At times, it behaves like a cat with a ball of wool.

There is a want to type.
Not to write. Not to speak. But to type.
Writing requires a firm grip. Speaking requires a strong heart.
But for a trembling hand and a feeble heart, dust adorned keys in a keyboard suffice. 

As the cursor moves letter by letter, so does my life, second by second.

Notes & thoughts from a short trip

• Being caged

Was so excited during the journey to Mysore. A new experience, of course. Also, an additional joy in anticipating the visit to the zoo. Had watched the wild animals at close range when I was 2-3 years old. 
But something unexpected happened at the zoo. I felt no joy as I passed from cage to cage. Only pain lingered. In one cage, saw a peacock dancing in all its glory. Couldn't bring about myself to watch the beauty. How could I? The beauty was trapped inside a cage.
Made me realize something - Better to put ourselves inside cages and watch the animals roaming around in the open (like in safari parks) rather than the opposite.
Brother also made a great statement - "If you think about it, it actually seems funny - People trapped inside their own cages five days a week rushing out to enjoy caged animals on the weekends". 
Personally knew the cages he was referring to too well to refuse.

Captured only a few photos. But one, where the 'capture' button was clicked accidentally before adjusting the focus turned out to sum up my feeling at the zoo.

• Happiness on screen

Had always thought that people flocked to zoos because they never got enough of animals on the television. But noticed something puzzling at the zoo.
Most people were content looking at the fascinating animals from behind a mobile phone screen. 
What should be seen and recorded by the human eye first was happily gifted to the mobile phone cameras. 
Why has the want to record everything on memory cards grown so uncontrollably over the want to record details on memory?

• Asking for help

People are always ready to help - A beautiful belief reinforced.

Phone kept running out of charge and there was no power bank. But small shops in the bus termini and small hotels were always ready to help. 

Also found that google maps was so boring in comparison to the localites. 

When asked for directions, the routes and transport modes were explained in a couple of minutes followed by detailed accounts of their lifestyles and travel habits.

Realized people will never get tired of talking about themselves. 

Sort of a happy realization for my blog!

• Chuck civilization

Not a care about proper restrooms. Not a care about change of clothes. Not a care about proper shelter. Not a care about time. 
How long had I been wanting to show the middle finger to civilization?!
Know that this is just a tame beginning. But a morning walk to a domestic dog is always priceless.

• The journey always matters

Visited 4 tourist destinations during our trip. But the destinations have already half faded from memory.
What is rooted strongly in the brain is the wait in the bus terminus for a bus that never arrived, the 5 kilometer walk to a temple simply because the smell of the roads was different, the scary ride in a bus as it twisted and turned at great speed on top of a hill, all the meaningless conversations that led to nowhere and yet had a special part in the journey.
Not necessary that only painstaking, backbreaking 50 day bicycle journeys and trips into unexplored wilderness should transform lives. 
Even a 2 day trip with a great companion has its own share of revelations. 

The school kid's travel

When I was a school kid, the travel from my home to school was always enchanting. Sitting by the window of a private van or a government bus, and watching the same locations pass by never seemed boring. Every ride was new and different.
Only as I neared my destination, the stomach turned upset and a heavy feeling overcame my heart. I knew it was not sadness. But it always accompanied me as I entered my classroom, constantly battling with my smile.
However, the poignancy lasted only for a span of 10-15 minutes. As my friends started filling in the neighboring benches, the heart turned light again and the curve of the lips started out on it's journey uphill. 

Of late, I have been reliving this cycle with my office.
Joy filled travel. Arrival with a burdened heart. Joy creeping in again with the entry of friends.
I keep wondering how the inexperienced, innocent, rote-learning-habituated school kid grew close with the improperly matured, guilt ridden, curious corporate.
Out of the numerous reasons that strike the mind, one stands out. 
One, I wish, will not linger away with time.

The people always outweigh the purpose.

Understanding old age

Few days back, after finishing my dinner at home, I walked to the wash basin to wash my hands. As I stood by the wash basin, I noticed that the bathroom light was on though there was no one inside to reap its benefit. I realized that it had been that way for quite some time and I tried remembering who had been the last person to visit the bathroom. Since I couldn't, I asked my grandmother if she had been the cause for letting the light suffer without company. Before she could reply, my mom admitted that she had been the culprit. Which shook me terribly.
My mom had never left any light unnecessarily switched on before that day. Never. 
I slowly switched off the bathroom light and walked away hoping that the miss from my mom's side was just a one-timer. 
The next day, at around afternoon, I heard water dripping from the kitchen tap. Seeing that there was no one in the kitchen, I went to close the tap. I noticed that the curry on the stove was on its way to completion and I understood that my mom had been in the kitchen few minutes earlier. Which shook me again.
My mom had never let the kitchen tap shed unnecessary water drops before that day. Never.

I have spent significant time thinking about my future self but I had not really given thought about my old age. "It's just a part and parcel of life", I had told myself. But the realization that my mom is growing older seemed very hard to come to terms with. It felt like a medical condition that would have caused lesser pain if it had not been diagnosed.

That night, as I waved my mom goodbye for my return to Bangalore, I noticed that the number of grey hair strands on my mom's head had increased. My heart sank.
For the past two days, I have been observing more hair strands of mine turning grey. 
Perhaps, a mother's ageing process tends to have immense impact on her child's ageing too.

Understanding loss

My maternal grandfather passed away today morning.
As I type this post, I am on my way, on a seven hour journey, to attend his last rites.

I thought for quite some time about typing this down.
What kind of a person sits and records his feelings immediately after learning about the death of a close family member?
Shouldn't he just break down and cry and cry?
I do not know. 
I have been trying to cry ever since my mom called me, three hours back, to inform me about the death. But I have not been able to.
I am unable to even describe the feeling. It does not seem to be of sadness. It does not seem to be of depression or anger either. 
It feels more like the river of emotions has drained, exposing the fossils of words that lay waiting to see sunlight.

I try remembering the old man. All the hours spent with him.
I forcefully keep reminding myself of his statement after he had learnt I had gotten a job in Bangalore.
"Bangalore is a really nice place. I have always wanted to live there. Perhaps, after some time, after you settle down there properly, I will come and stay with you."
I had had grand plans for him.
All those plans seem to make no sense now just like his sudden demise.

I think more about my grandmother. 
She is the greatest victim of the loss.
I wonder what she would be going through now, having built her entire world around her better half. 
I firmly tell myself that when I step into a relationship in the future, I should be careful enough to not let my partner love me to the extent of not being able to cope with my loss. Letting my girl love me without limits and letting her suffer in uncontrollable pain after my death seems too selfish. 
But would asking a person to love cautiously be appropriate?

I continue staring out my bus window. The mountains and paddy fields race behind in a hurry.
I remember the last words my mom had told me on her morning call.
"Make sure you eat something before you board the bus. Please don't travel with an empty stomach. Take care."
When I should have consoled her and asked her to take care, she had done it the other way. 
I wonder what she would be going through now. 
It takes a very long time to recover from losing a father. 
When a child is robbed of its father, it is also robbed of its greatest hero.

I try to understand death. 
It seems really unfair at first sight.
But at a deeper level, it seems to give way to newer, better lives and newer, better bonds. 
When my paternal grandfather had passed away, my paternal grandmother had been in so bad a state the entire family had doubted her recovering from the loss. But today, pride is the feeling that overtakes me when I think about her evolution from everyone's favourite cook to the respected head of a family. 
I wish a similar future for my maternal grandmother.

My mom called me a few minutes back. "The entire family has gathered here. So you travel without worrying. We have one another for support", she had said. 
I imagined the family members seated close to one another, consoling and reminiscing. I imagined the amount of care that would be prevalent now in my grandfather's house.
Now, that is another beauty of loss.
It shows you the value of what you have.

The poet warrior

I raise my sword halfway.

I know that I do not want to fight wholeheartedly but I also do not want to back off.

All these days, I had been brandishing the sword for the spectators in the arena. But now, I want to hold the weapon for the heart’s desire.

Sadly, it has fallen in love with the opponent – An opponent like no other.

It is going to be an interesting dual. A dual in which every time our swords meet, my blood is going to be shed.

But I do not mind. For I know that every drop of my blood would transform itself into a beautiful poem.

I reminisce about the dual I had lost in the past. It had left me lying in a huge pool of blood. A pool that had dried and dried before blossoming into a garden of poems. Passers-by had lauded the garden but no one had cared about the mortally injured warrior.

I raise my sword halfway.

I march ahead to be wounded. I expect the pool of blood to be bigger.

I realize that everyone will care only about the garden but if not for the dual, if not for the losing warrior, how would the poet win?

But perhaps once, just once, I would like to see the warrior win. 

No bloodshed, no poems but just a simple, silent victory. A victory where he embraces the conquered opponent and puts down his sword. A victory where the warrior is finally acknowledged.

Once, just once, I would like to see the warrior win.

How much more should the poor guy suffer?!

Why I Write

"What do you write?" 
Many people have asked me this question after learning that I write. And my answers have varied greatly. 
Random stuff. Whatever interests me. Majorly philosophical. 
Why shouldn't my answers vary?!
Not every person listens attentively - One very important realization that turned out to be a major reason for me starting a blog. 
I was so narcissistic in believing that I was really smart and had loads of interesting/innovative/enlightening thoughts to be shared.
Probably true. Probably not.

A few of my colleagues smoke. One colleague to the extent of 4-5 cigarettes per day. 
I wanted to know the reason behind so many puffs of tobacco and asked him the same one day.
"It's difficult to explain..  It's..It's more like... It's something which helps you more than you think it does.. It's more like meditation.. Breathe in, breathe out..It helps you be normal.."
I could relate with his reply.
After all, I experience the very same thing whenever I smoke words. Every inhalation of a thought and every exhalation of a statement clears up my mind. 
Writing is my smoke on a chilly evening with a hot cup of tea. 
Writing is my meditation.

In the dark days after my failed romance, there were many things that kept me going. 
One of which was anonymous blogs where people shared their (failed) love stories and hoards of other personal moments. 
Reading the stories gave me hope.  
The hope that takes birth in a man stranded on a lonely island when he sees another man swimming towards him from a capsized boat.
And I want(ed) my writings to be such a source of hope for a guy from Turkey or a girl from Taiwan or a transsexual from Texas.
At times, it feels easier to connect with strangers than with the people constantly around you. Especially with the written word. Especially when in pain.

There is a general belief that when a person really likes doing something, he/she needs to pursue it as a career. 
Fair enough. 
But what about the irrepressible fear that denies to leave the person and continues threatening that he/she might not be really good at something he/she loves doing?!
How does one overcome this?!
I wish I could suggest a simple solution. But things do not work that way. 
Clarity in life is not attained by a blog post. It requires considerable introspection. And also a tinge of craziness.
I learnt it the hard way.
I started writing because I could.
I continued writing because I wanted to.
I write now because I have to. 

A happy half-century!

A grandfather who till the last days of his life was a voracious reader

A grandmother who at the age of 75 uses headphones more than I do, being a music lover

A father who was an epitome of radical ideas and social concern

A mother who is an artist by birth and a handicrafts-woman at will

A brother who is an excellent musician, a brilliant writer/photographer and a true film-lover

A sister who is an amazing cook and an expert when it comes to any issues emotional/romantic

A friend who is an intellectual in the truest sense and has been the silent victim of every single creative outing of mine for the past 12 years

My life has never really been mine. And I say it without the slightest tinge of regret.

I have and I continue to be a collection of the shadows of all these people who have made my life worth living.

When I began this blog, I did not imagine that my writing interest would survive a month, let alone survive 49 posts. But seeing that it has, a slight doubt arises as to if I have really developed a strong liking towards writing and if it is the path to tread further (which I am sure would gladden a reader/writer friend of mine).

But then, for a feat so trivial compared to professional writers/bloggers, I shouldn't be making much fuss about.

And so I end this happy post iterating,

My life has never really been mine. I have and I continue to be a collection of the shadows of all these people who have made me a better human being and of course, for this blog, a better writer.

Thank you all!

P.S.: I have luckily got hold of a post that I could re-post by simply editing the numbers in case I accidentally make it to a 100 :D 
#PerksOfaLazyWriter  

Tales from a granny

“They were our neighbors. The father was a government official and so, obviously, they were well off. The first time he brought it home, the entire compound had gathered inside their house. The women of his house had their faces splattered with a huge smile that their hands could henceforth be given the rest they needed. The next day, I walked off to their house with a bag full of grams. I handed it to my friend and asked her smilingly if it could be ground to a powder. She herself still knew not how to operate the machine and the both of us figured a mechanism half an hour later and emptied the contents of the bag inside the jar and as we switched it on, it swirled for a few times before bursting off in a puff of smoke. A few minutes later, I looked into the burnt jar and saw that the gram had been powdered but not in the way I had wanted!”

This was a story I was audience to as I stood in the kitchen roasting curry leaves in the stainless steel pan, en routé to the preparation of ‘Paruppu podi’. The story had been told by my grandma as she had started readying the mixer for grinding the grams.

Apart from the fact that I would be spending priceless hours with my mom and my grandma, the two other factors that excited me on the entire length of my every journey to my home from my hostel were:

• The delicious food, of course, which never failed to add more fat to my waistline and made me struggle for a minute or two on the night of my departure with the same jeans pant that I had gotten into easily before my visit to home
• The tales that came out so easily from my most favorite storyteller and always made me gape in awe at the life she had lived

“I think that the distance would have, at the least, been about two to three kilometers. And I couldn’t carry just one pot. A family of ours required a minimum of two pots of water. Hence, I would start from my house with two pots, walk for the stretch of two kilometers, fill them with water from the corporation tap and then rest one in my hip holding it with one hand while carrying the other in my other hand, walking back the two kilometers again taking care that the water did not spill. All this at the age of twelve. And I would have to get back to doing my household work at the house where I worked immediately. But look at your sister now.” she paused waiting to see if my sister heard her and continued ”I am sure that she would have done all these better than me.”

I let out a chuckle as my sister let out a grunt, an angry stare at my grandma, and walked out of the house to the terrace.

The tale had been a result of one hour’s pleading of my grandma to my sister to fetch the clothes that had been pinned to the clotheslines on the terrace for drying. My sister had been replying with ‘In a minute’ for every statement of my grandma’s, absorbed with the Tamil dubbed Hindi tele-serial she had been watching. Finally the tale had presented itself achieving its purpose.

It amazed me by and large as to how come my grandma had a tale ready for every single instance that presented itself worth talking about.

There was a tale about how the ‘Kadalamaavu sambhar’ was a regular at most of the Brahmin food-stalls in her days and how the recipe had been passed on from her two earlier generations to her as she poured a steaming spoonful of the same on my neatly arranged idlis one night.

There was a tale about how the Carnatic legend M.S.Subbulakshmi had performed during one of the ‘Margazhi’ seasons at their residential compound and a comment on how easily accessible and down-to-earth the celebrities and artists were in her times compared to the hype that preceds the visit of even a small television anchor nowadays as I pointed out an article on the ‘Margazhi  Music season’ in the newspaper to her.

There was also a tale about how her mother would only buy milk that cost 50 paise and would avoid buying milk that cost 55 paise as the 5 paise saved would help her out with other food materials as she shut the door having paid our milkman his monthly charge for delivering half a litre ‘Aavin’ milk everyday morning – 625 rupees.

Be it an ‘Arisi upma’  or the Taj Mahal, be it a ‘Phulka’ or the economic inflation, be it a ‘Sikarne’ or T.V.Sundaram Iyengar – the founder of T.V.S. Motors , be it the ‘Mullu murukku’, ‘Rava laddu’ or the Indian National Congress’s history, she has a tale. 

A tale that always has me spellbound through its entirety.

A tale from a lady who had lived in a pre-independent India, in a post-independent India, in a coming-to-terms-with-westernization-India and in a searching-for-its-culture-having-submerged-deeply-in-westernization India.

A tale from a lady who could make me aware of up to four generations prior to mine and make me feel proud being the newly (!) sprouted plant of our family garden.

And the interesting (or perhaps, not so interesting) fact is that this amazing old lady that I have mentioned above isn’t the only old one having her heart filled with tales that span decades and generations.

Every single lady and every single man with wrinkled hands and feet, with labored breaths and bent backs, with arthritic knees and walking sticks, with insulin injections and faces weathered by time – every single such lady and man have their hearts filled with innumerable tales that span decades and generations.

All they yearn for in the sunset of their lives is a patient ear that would hear them out.

For these people who have toiled so hard in taking care of themselves and in taking care of our parents, for these people who have been indirectly involved in the process of us having been endowed with the best of genes, I guess dedicating a little time off our daily lives shouldn’t be much of a compromise. Though it is an act of gratitude in the tiniest measure, it would be a heartening gesture to these souls burdened with more than just the tales.

And well, frankly, does listening to a story hurt?!