Nostalgia

Image courtesy: Google

After spending fifteen years in the Gulf, we returned to our native village in Kerala. The naalukettu looked exactly the same, though the surroundings were now dotted with new buildings and houses. I walked over to the swing that hung from the Gulmohur tree. It was wet from the early morning showers.

I sat clutching the sturdy coir ropes enjoying the gentle swing back and forth. The bright red flowers let go of the cool drops of rain they held. They awakened within me a feeling of nostalgia, a sudden longing for my past that now seemed  to be so perfect. It was as if each drop wanted to remind me of a story long forgotten. Under my feet lay a thousand red petals of the Gulmohur on a carpet of green grass.

It was many years ago on a similar morning that I met Madhavan. He used to walk past our house every day wearing a crisp white mundu and checked shirt. An occasional glance gave way to smiles and soon we started meeting at the nearby temple, spending endless hours under the sacred Peepal tree. Life seemed so perfect, with Madhavan as the hero of my love story.

I was jolted back to reality when he waved from the other side of the brick wall. “How have you been?” he queried with a smile.

“Fine.”

There was an awkward silence before I headed into the house saying “It is going to rain.”

How could I face him, having given in like a coward to the pressure from my family to marry a rich man working in the Middle East? I drifted back in time to sweet memories untainted by the bitterness of my marriage.

Naalukettu - Traditional house in Kerala

Mundu - A garment worn by people in south India

Gulmohur - A flowering tree

Peepal - Sacred fig tree




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The Memory Box

Image courtesy: Google

Tucked away within the powdery dust

of layered thoughts recent and crusted,

lies a memory box with secrets locked

by a promise ancient yet trusted.

A whiff of its dark air deeply perfumed

by a cherished childhood complete,

takes me back to days bygone

through objects that seem obsolete.

Its hesitant creak upon my touch

sends forth ripples of innocent laughter

from carefree days lived to the brim

with no worry of what came after.

I caress its contents treasured-

feathers dyed, leaves dried,

letters inked, stones that winked,

coiled cones bequeathed by the tide.

Cradled deep within my memory box

is a handful of special red seeds

and brown ones with silken white tufts

wedged between luck-bringing weeds.

The broken red of bangles, bright

as the untouched bits of a heart forsaken

Faded petals, dry and brittle

once crimson with the love I’d taken.

Inside my little memory box

that mirrors a life of perfection

I seek refuge on rainy days

to see a sunny smile on my reflection.

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In the lap of nature

Taken on one of our trips

Being amidst nature in my opinion, is the most soothing, refreshing and energising experiences one can have, second only to the warmth of a mother’s lap. Born and brought up in a place where we were engulfed by swaying coconut palms, ponds studded with wild scented lilies in the purple-green background of  water hyacinths and vast open fields blanketed by wild grass and touch-me- not that would fill up during rains, creating a playground for frogs, crickets and snakes, this lap of nature rightfully belonged to me too. I would spend hours playing in the grass, feeding cows, petting them, collecting seeds, stones and just about anything that fancied me. It was the green patch in front of our house that I ran to when I did something mischievous and my irritated mother chased me.

Image courtesy:Google

Every inch of our modest garden nurtured something green- no, not manicured lawns and the yellow -green Duranta hedges (they are too business-like and formal), but wild flowers, climbers, hibiscus, jasmine a few vegetables and other plants that we mercilessly dismiss as “weeds”. My uncle and I would collect lotuses and lilies and arrange them in a jug of water to be able to adore their beauty even indoors, just as people would now click photographs and set it as their desktop backgrounds and screen savers. Study time always meant going to the balcony or terrace (unless it was too sunny or heavily pouring) with a steaming cup of tea and snacks and reading at leisure till twilight, when most of the light was gradually gobbled up by the approaching night.

Image courtesy: Google

The gentle breeze laden with freshness, the endlessly falling dry leaves, the whispering leaves, the bright green blades of grass studded with dew drops that shone with a brilliance comparable to diamonds, the golden sunshine illuminating all the minuscule particles in its path into a glittering dance, the humming bees, the flapping birds calling out to one another, the butterflies and dragonflies in their graceful dance; they all seemed to be claiming their share of nature, their mother’s lap to be a part of her. There is no end to these memories just like the infinite horizon.

Image courtesy: Google

Things are a lot different now with apartments, homes and building complexes dotting the view from my terrace and balcony. Fewer trees and gardens, courtyards sealed with concrete, rarity of birds and bees have become so common that we are all easily getting used to it. This makes a park or a small green patch all the more precious. During free time, I just rush to the nearby park, sit on one of the benches and absorb all the beauty I see around hoping to fully charge my batteries. I read books, dream and even write some of my blog posts sitting there. I am determined to spend a lot of time in the diminishing pieces of nature’s lap before it is too late. So dear whoever you are, grab every chance to sleep and play on her lap and even better, make one for yourself.

Life in a Crowded Red Bus

 Buses have been an inalienable part of my life. Right from when I was a baby to the present, I have relied on them as a means of transport. In fact, it is the vehicle in which I have travelled the most. Inevitably, a multitude of strong memories and emotions are tethered to this red giant on wheels. I have been witness to and have experienced pleasant, funny, embarrassing, distressing, painful, irritating, obnoxious and even scary incidents during my journeys.

A quick primer about private buses in Kerala. They are mostly coloured bright red. Unlike other states in India, there are very few public transport buses available to commute within the city, so people rely on these bright red buses on a daily basis. Interestingly, they are not numbered route-wise but have names that I feel, give them a human touch. St.John, Hasnamol, Arafa, King, Mangalya, Jyothis, Nawaz and so on. So if you overhear someone at the bus stop saying they’re waiting for Aishwarya, in all probability it is the bus they are waiting for. Some times when seen from a distance they even seem to look human! It amuses me how my psyche fabricates humanoid images of these buses. Some look depressed or have a frowning face, some have huge nostrils and some others are decked up like a bride during festivals.

Having travelled so much in buses it would not be fair on my part to brush aside the people one encounters in them- most importantly the driver, cleaner (fondly called kili which means bird in Malayalam) and conductor (ticket collector). They are too conspicuous to miss with their numerous avatars ranging from friendly, kind and helpful to flirts, oglers, gropers and heartless beasts. Young, old, middle aged. All kinds. Then of course there are my co passengers- babies(crying or sleeping), children(school going, armed with heavy bags), working women (bathed in coconut oil, hair dripping with the oil-water emulsion), college students (well dressed, ready to flash their student travel concession cards), fish mongers and labourers (with their pots, basins, baskets and tools) and many others with their own stories of joy and grief.

Each time I step into its threshold I get whisked away into another world, a world bubbling, fuming steaming within the confines of the flaming red chassis. With not an inch to be spared, the overcrowded bus speeds away like a lunatic, least concerned about other beings on the road. Trapped inside and suffocated by the various smells and carbon dioxide laden puffs emanating from my fellow passengers exacerbated by my short stature, I make a desperate attempt to stand on my toes gasping for some fresh air. In utter disappointment, I withdraw my attempts as the slightest movement invites devilish glares, scowls and tch-tchs from the aunties poised to attack with their elbows outstretched. How can I forget those days when I helplessly watched the bus speeding past my destination due to my inept jostling skills? Or the days I scrambled out of the bus, my hair a total mess, my  duppatta caressing many a confused head as I tugged at it waiting outside the window for some benevolent stranger to throw my bag out and for another to catch it promptly and hand it over to me.

On many occasions middle aged men tried their luck in touching, pinching or pressing themselves on to women “by mistake”. Sometimes I watched helplessly, at other times I was rescued by safety pins and high heels. Infatuated drivers and cleaners sometimes refused to accept the ticket fare in spite of insistence. Once, a lady nearly fell off the moving bus as it raced ahead impatiently even before she could alight. There have been pleasant incidents too. Those lucky days when I managed to get a seat and travel comfortably, when I was helped by a lady in picking up my wallet that I thought was lost in the crowd and those days when I got to sit with friends enjoying a conversation about the most mundane of things. The luckiest day when I reached college alive and safe having travelled on the foot-board with only my feet inside, torso and head getting drenched in the merciless monsoon showers, my hands clutching the rails as if holding onto my soul which could slip away any moment.

On Saturdays and holidays I would get to sit by the window and tap my feet to the tasteless music being played by the driver, savouring the sights along the road and the breeze on my face. A luxurious gift that ignited many thoughts. On those days I often compared the journey to life. There is a beginning and an end. Many things happen between the two. People come and leave. There can be good experiences and bitter ones, some that make us happy, others that teach us a lesson. Some people and things stay with us throughout. Others depart when it is time. Some come very late in life but leave their indelible mark. Some others are never noticed. Some may have been worth noticing. In the end, however pleasant or bitter the journey, one has to move on with renewed hope. A new journey, a new beginning....a new life.

Drenched in memories

Images: Google

Rains in Bangalore, what a relief from the parched, dusty brown streets, the lifeless trees and withering leaves. Some call it gloomy weather, some like to say overcast and humid - not a good sign, some others worried about the wet clothes, musty smell, slushy roads and freezing cold. I just loved it. The grey clouds and humid air told me of their secrets and conquests….secrets only some liked to hear. I did. I eagerly awaited the cool winds and the soft drizzles. I was even geared up for the mighty showers.

Rain. There is something about the very word that showers me with freshness and fulfilment. It washes away all the dust and grime, the cobwebs and grease from my being.  It fills me with excitement and wonder, happiness and cheer. Even before it actually came, there was torrential rain in my heart and soul.

I was getting ready for the pitter-patter on my windows. I would give it a grand welcome. Not like some others who shielded away the cool breeze and the lovely weather with unfriendly woollens and jackets. As I walked back from the market last evening, the clouds finally showered their blessings on the city. Soft, cool sprays of water on my face. It was heaven. I closed my eyelids and breathed in…the earthy scent that I so love, the dampness in the air, life-giving water…water everywhere.

Memories of monsoons in Kerala gushed in. The non-stop rains, the flooded roads, paper boats, the cat at the doorstep curled up on the mat, people hurrying home before the heavy rain, steaming hot coffee in a steel tumbler that Amma would bring along with spicy savouries and snacks- that I would enjoy while staring outside the window, the sound of crickets and frogs at night, the endless power cuts and candle light family dinners, the unfriendly mosquitoes that whistled away nonchalantly after a feasting on a sumptuous blood meal, water snakes and fish that appeared suddenly out of nowhere, slugs, flies, millipedes and what not? Temple visits with best of friends despite the downpour and flooded roads, our chappals spraying brown blotches of muddy water all over our clothes. I feel blessed to have experienced the monsoons in Kerala for a little over two decades.

Pulling my unwilling self back to the present, I stare out of the window up into the sky, trying to trace the origin of the drops of rain. May be I could catch a few spirited kids playing in the rain. May be I would see a few toads calling out, trying to find a worthy partner. May be. Failing in my attempt, and utterly bored, I go to the terrace and see the clothes getting wet. I dash towards the clothes line, tugging at the clothes in desperation, gathering them into a huge bundle. But they are already wet and cold. I curse the rain and go about doing my work. I make a cup of instant coffee for myself and gulp it down. With a slight pang of sorrow I realize they are not the same any more…the drizzles and the torrents.

Shades of Green

She heard voices far away. They were so familiar. Was it her mother? They became louder and louder. And louder until her ears ached. “Please stop it!” she begged. But the voices continued. What kind of a cruel joke was this? She felt tired and her body felt sore. She wanted some peace. She wanted to sleep, curled up inside her mother's womb. But these voices!

“Don’t speak or laugh loudly.”

“Don’t whistle.”

“Sit properly with your legs close to each other.”

“Wear loose clothes that don’t reveal the shape of your breasts.”

“Don’t mingle too much with boys.”

“We are expecting guests, go and wear your dupatta.”

“Don’t ask too many questions, just do as you are told.”

“Better learn to cook, sew and clean the house.”

These were just few of the strict instructions Meera had received from her mother and aunts through her growing years. From that day. Yes, the day she first saw that bright red streak of blood as she prepared to shower. Little did she know that it would change her life forever.

For a few days, perhaps even months she felt very special. She could join her older cousins Lavanya and Namita in gossiping and sharing  secrets. Earlier, they used to speak in hushed tones while Meera was around because she was just a kid. She even felt elated that some of the boys in class had begun to look at her differently. She enjoyed the attention secretly but never forgot her mother's words. “Wow! It really feels special to be a girl” she thought, as she browsed through her wardrobe unable to decide what to wear to the party that evening. She liked being her parents' little princess, she felt protected and vowed never to disobey them.

Her mother kept feeding her with lots of dos and don'ts. Why not? She was a girl, like a burning splinter, dangerously placed near fuel. The only solution was to douse the splinter. Sometimes Meera felt they were appropriate and at other times she would ask her mother to stop nagging her. She was a good girl, she would never do anything that would make her parents upset. So she was safe unlike those bad girls who wore short skirts, who had boyfriends, who conveniently forgot their dupattas at home, who roamed the streets after dusk and sat carelessly with legs apart. She took pride that she was growing up to become a well mannered and respectable young woman.

She woke up with a start. Her mouth was parched, her feet cold and her head felt heavy.  Then she heard other voices.

“Hey you! Beautiful.”

“This won't take much time.”

“Come on, don't do anything stupid. Or you will regret.”

Then after a long pause, “The bitch deserved it. Come on let's leave.”

 Her eyelids could no longer contain the outburst of sadness as her entire body wept. So did her spirit. She felt her mother's warm hands caress her tear stained cheeks. What went wrong? For a second, her gaze met her mother's. With utmost pain she realized that there was no answer. With a sigh she closed her eyes again hoping to slip into another world where she would truly be a princess.