For a long time now, I have been unable to read fiction...or even best sellers. Thousands of books stare at me from racks in the bookstore, their coverpages sophisticated and almost forbidding, and I find myself running to the warm familiarity of the worn-out books that talk to me from the dusty shelves of some old library. There, I hunt for fragments of human lives- of stories narrated and then bound and buried in layers of dust.

In that respect, I was grateful to Anita Nair for digging out some of those narrations from their grave, and giving them their due merit, by compiling them and re-circulating them amongst a generation that is still making futile attempts at getting a footing.

In the crumbling pages of some of these age-old books, I discovered verses and words that I wouldn't trade for all the money in this world. Voices that reached out across time and space. The essence of human life...of each of our lives....buried in all its beauty.

It was thus that I was introduced to Kamala Suraiya. I stumbled upon "My Days" quite coincidentally. I only knew Kamala as a controversial writer. I wasn't even sure what the controversy was. This is the only book of hers that I have read. And that is all I needed to read to feel that I knew her as one only knows oneself. There was nothing that needed explanation or clarification....there was nothing that was mysterious or controversial....there was only beauty that I could see in the mind that reverberated those words. A flowing river that absorbed all the elements of the dynamic world that it flowed through, with the same vitality and transparency. She saw as much beauty in the mountains that she originated from, as in the sea that she merged into. She was a mirror. If you looked into her words-her mind, you saw yourself. And I loved what I saw.
I loved her as much as I loved my parrot- the one that flew away after having learnt to scream its name. They have both found their worlds of freedom.

Her death has created an immeasurable void on this planet, for no further creation shall emanate from that mind again. But then, I take respite in the fact that I can still communicate to her. She speaks to me through those immortal words. I cannot ever stop marvelling at the power that words have....at the vitality that they have. In her words, I never saw words....I saw her- her naked emotions.

When I concluded reading "My Days", I impulsively wrote a letter to her. A letter that I never mailed her. A letter that was 'me', just as her book was 'her'. That was my unspoken gratitude for the words she wrote....for the words that will always give me the courage to be myself- uncontaminated, unruffled. I have learnt to treasure my own mind, for I am now convinced that it is not my own.....it is a divine gift that has to be cherished and loved.....loved for what it is, and not what it needs to be.

In her death, I go back to words that have clung to my soul. For some strange reason, they sound more alive now....


"In the afternoon, I occasionally walked to the old cemetery. The tombstones were like yellowed teeth and even the writings had faded with the rains of half a century. But it was thrilling to read the words that had not faded. I was too young to know about ghosts. It was possible for me to love the dead as deeply as I loved the living. From the dead, no harshness could emanate, no cruelty.....

When we die, we die. On the site of my pyre, my sons shall plant a coconut tree. Then some day one of my descendants may go up to the tree and rub her palm against its bark, murmuring futile messages to the dead......

When we were separated, my brother and I, I felt alone and lost, for between us even in the silence we shared was a pure kind of communication, an interminable dialogue that went on and on like that of the wind with the earth or the sun with the trees. Each drew sustenance from the others' unspoken support.

The word mate with its earthly connotations made me uneasy. I felt lost and unhappy. I could not tell my father that I had hoped for a more tranquil relationship with a hand on my hair and a voice in my ear, telling me that everything was going to be alright for me. I had hoped that he would remove with one sweep of his benign arms, the loneliness in my life. I had expected him to be all that I wanted my father to be, and my mother. I wanted conversation, companionship and warmth. I thought then that love was flowers in the hair, it was the yellow moon lighting up a familiar face, and soft words whispered in the ear. At the end of the month, experiencing rejection, jealousy and bitterness, I grew old suddenly, my face changed from a child's to a woman's. Any sign of kindness from people made me weep like a child.

Wipe out the paints, unmould the clay. Let nothing remain of that yesterday.

My grief felt like drops of honey on the white sheets on my desk. My sorrows floated over the pages of magazines darkly as heavy monsoon clouds do in the sky....

One's real world is not what is outside him. It is the immeasurable world inside him that is real. Only the one who has decided to travel inwards, will realize that his route has no end. Our ends, our real destinations, are our beginnings.
Tragedy is not death but growth and the growing out of needs.
Like alms looking for a begging bowl was my love which only sought for it a receptacle. At the hour of worship, even a stone becomes an idol. I was perhaps seeking a familiar face that blossomed like a blue lotus in the waters of my dreams. Beauty seemed to be only a brief season.

I liked to study people, for I loved them tremendously.
Ask the books that I read why I changed. Ask the authors dead and alive who communicated with me and gave me the courage to be myself.

Poets, even the most insignificant of them, are different from other people. They cannot close their shops like shopmen and return home. Their shop is their mind and aslong as they carry it with them, they feel the pressures and the torments. A poet's raw material is not stone or clay; it is her personality. I could not escape from my predicament even for a moment. I was emotional and over-sensitive. Whenever a snatch of unjustified scandal reached me through well-meaning relatives, I wept like a wounded child for hours, rolling on my bed and often took sedatives to put myself to sleep.

It was dusk, and all the Delhi streets were fragrant and murky. I felt very young, very lovely and delightfully carefree.
Wherever a writer goes, her notoriety precedes her. The non-writers do not normally trust the writers. This is because they are entirely dissimilar, except in appearance. The mind being an invisible limb, is not taken into consideration. Even birds have their own particular heights. The land birds who do not rise far into the lonely sky, often wonder why the eagles fly high, why they go round and round like ballerinas. The essence of the writer eludes the non-writer. All that the writer reveals to such people are her oddities of dress and her emotional excesses. Finally, when the muscles of the mind have picked up enough power to read people's secret thoughts, the writer shies away from the invisible hostility and clings to her own type, those dreaming ones, born with a fragment of wing still attached to a shoulder.

We are burdened with perishable bodies which strike up bonds which are also unreal, and unperishable. The only relationship that is permanent is the one we form with God. My mate is He. He shall come to me in myriad shapes. In many shapes shall I surrender to His desire. I shall be fondled by Him. I shall be betrayed by Him. I shall pass through all the pathways of this world, condemning none, understanding all, and then becoming part of Him. Then for me there shall be no return journey.
Disease and pain matured me. I forgot the art of localizing my love. I found it easy to love nearly all those who came to see us.

I sincerely believe in fraternizing with one's own type. If you have to survive, vanity and all, you must stick willy ninny to your own intellectual caste. Others can only misjudge you.
I had become a truth-addict and I loved my writing more than I loved my parents or my sons. If the need ever arose, I would without hesitation bid goodbye to them, only to be allowed to remain what I was- a writer.

Large areas of my ignorance had been obliterated by the lessons I had learnt in life and I wanted my readers to know of it. I had realized by then that the writer has none to love her but her readers. She would have proved herself to be a mere embarassment to the members of her family, for she is like a goldfish in a well-lit bowl whose movements are never kept concealed.

I have often wished to take myself apart and stick all the bits on a large canvas, to form a collage which could then be donated to my readers.

During the long weeks of my convalescence, I was obsessed with the recollections of my childhood days spent at Nalapat. For hours I had played in the sunlit pond behind the house flailing the water with my girl-thin limbs, while the turtles moved about in its hostile depths and eels stared at me with their opal eyes, but in all those unfenced hours I had felt no fear, nor even joy, but an anonymous peace.

I sincerely believe that knowledge is exposure to life. I could never bring myself to hang my life on the pegs of quotation for safety. I never did play safe. I compromised myself with every sentence I wrote and thus burnt all the boats that would have reached me to security. What did I finally gain from life? Only the vague hope that there are a few readers who have loved reading my books although they have not wished to inform me of it. It is for each of them that I continue to write.

The world outside my house is always so busy catching buses, balancing accounts, lobbying for de-classed politicians, pimping for the impotant and hiding their ill-gotten wealth in concealed lockers. What did the poor have in their lives to be so happy about? They were working from morning till dusk carrying cement and climbing the scaffoldings. And yet they had more vitality than I had and more of optimism.

If we were to see life as a collage, a vast assembly of things and people and emotions, we shall stop grieving for the dead, stop pining for the living and stop accumulating visible wealth. Ultimately we shall discover that we are immortal and that the only mortal things are systems and arrangements. Even our pains shall continue in those who have devoured us. We are trapped in immortality, and the our only freedom is the freedom to discompose.

I have been for years obsessed with the idea of death. I have come to believe that life is a mere dream and that death is the only reality. It is endless, stretching before and beyond our human existence. To slide into it will be to pick up a new significance. Life has been, despite all emotional involvements, as ineffectual as writing on moving water. We have been mere participants in someone else's dream.

I am at peace. I liken God to a tree which has as its parts the leaves, the bark, the fruits and flowers- each unlike the other, but in each lying dissolved the essence of the tree, the whatness of it....."

Tags: kamala das

At the outset, I would like to emphasise that I deeply love Kerala. The bond is a very deep-rooted one, for on the one hand, my very existence has taken roots from this land, and besides, it has gifted me infinite moments that linger in memory. To me, Kerala has always been a land with a soul- a land that listens to me and talks to me, and a land that can feel happiness and pain just as we all can. 

3 years back, when I landed in Kerala, I had no idea of what awaited me here. I found in me a huge appetite and tremendous energy levels to savour this place in totality. For the first couple of months, I was perhaps floating in the fragrant nostalgia of the past- an old-world Kerala that I deeply loved. I even wrote a little book on Kerala, based on those memories from childhood. So ever slowly, I plunged into my environment- first the geography, then the people. 3 years have passed. The place has left me battered and so depleted of physical and mental energy that if I do not replenish my energy soon, I might just become extinct. I realized that my first book was so incomplete without its sequel, where I would have to talk about the horrors of day-to-day life in Kerala- a draining process that exhausts your body and mind in totality. On occasions when I sit down to listen to this land, I hear it cry, for it is deeply grieved by the attitude of its people. The very people that it nurtures, have destroyed it to the point of no return. It is deeply hurt, but no one hears its cry. 

God’s own country. Truly, I have never seen a place so rich in terms of nature. For this land is blessed with natural resources and with physical beauty. The vegetation is so dense that it gives one the feel of a place untouched by man. As a child, I was fascinated by the abundance of water- streams and rivers and the phenomenal monsoons- they seemed to quench the thirst of my soul. For the artist in me, Kerala was the most sensuous stimulus, for it seemed to awaken all my senses. 

I often wonder where all the people from old-world Kerala disappeared. There were broadly two classes of people in those days- the educated government office employees and the skilled, manual labourers.The private sector was and continues to be very poorly developed in Kerala. A third group comprised of the traders, who were predominantly muslims. My memories of all these classes of people are very pleasant. The educated man valued his educational wisdom. The labourer valued his skill at labour. The trader valued natural resources that earned him his trade. Perhaps because they all valued nature at different levels, it was natural for them to value each others’ attributes too. Education was respected just as labour was appreciated. Art existed at each of these levels. It was a society inspired and motivated by nature, and the contributions to art in that era will perhaps remain unparalleled. 

As the 3 years took me through a progressively intricate journey of modern day Kerala, the memories from the old-world Kerala feel so distant, to the extent that they almost begin to feel unreal. I now realize the significance of the ‘common man’, for he determines most aspects of day-to-day living in any community. Let me now introduce you to the modern-day common man in Kerala. He is the man who contributes to 90% of your interactions and encounters in day-today life. He is the man you will encounter in the streets, in public places and in the buses….he is the man who will walk in as your patient at the hospital….he is the man you buy your grocery and vegetables from….he is the man who will ultimately shape your mood and emotions. Most of the time, this man is literate- he can read and write (often Malayalam and a few words in English). 100% literacy was perhaps this state’s greatest curse. For the first time, I understood how big the gap between literacy and education is, and how much damage literacy can lead to, in the absence of education. Now, our common man who is literate, will have to be excused for the content of his language, for there is the profound absence of a thought process guiding his language. Given that, commenting on the proficiency of his grammar/spelling/ pronounciation holds no water. Now this man easily disqualifies for all the jobs that demand education in the true sense. That leaves him with a pride that is aching to establish itself. He achieves this by various means. First and foremost, he abandons labour. He refuses to indulge in any sort of manual labour that will tarnish his literacy status. He might be a skilled labourer, thanks to family tradition, but he chooses his literacy status over and above family tradition. While his family continues its tradition in order to earn their living, you will find him sitting idly in public places, often in T-shirts with captions that he might not even have deciphered, and trousers that he is extremely uncomfortable in, or less often, in a white loincloth that might not even serve its purpose. He is an eyesore in the culture of Kerala and the despair of the female sex, for letching is his favourite pastime. 

He is not alone in this endeavour. He enjoys the back-up of not just fellow-common men, but also political parties who engage him in various ‘party-promotion activities’. On weekends, you will inevitably encounter them, for they will visit you at your residence for your valuable financial contribution to perhaps a childrens’ function, a temple festival, an orchestra, or anything that has no implication on our lives. To this day, there is no garbage disposal initiative or road repair initiative in these parts. The beautiful Valapattanam river and the sea is the public garbage dumpyard for all practical purposes, but no one has an objection as long as their houses and premises are litter-free. These are definitely not the responsibility of our man in picture, for he has nothing to do with them. When he requests you for a contribution, you need to remember that it is a threat wrapped up in the tone of a request. The contribution should amount to a minimum of Rs 50. The square feet area of your house, your occupation, relatives abroad, and other factors will determine how much more you will need to pay. In a day, you can have upto 5-6 groups visiting you for such contributions. You can choose to not contribute, but you must not be surprised if your house or car is pelted with stones the next day by an unidentified mob. The safer alternative is to lock the gate and and the door, and pretend that you are not in. It particularly helps if there is no access to the doorbell at the gate. 

By now, I have managed to trace the pattern of their operation. Sundays are the destined days for such ‘contributions’. They are unlikely to turn up early in the morning, because they like to sleep late into the morning and treat themselves to a filling breakfast. The most likely time is from 9 a.m. to 1 p.m. When it comes to lunch, they are very particular. 1pm is the deadline, and it is unlikely that they will turn up after lunch, for they like to sleep after lunch. In the evenings, they like to drink, and that keeps them away. I cannot tell you how good it feels to watch them leave in disappointment, leading them to believe that there is nobody at home. They are all well-built muscular young men, who gradually accumulate fat and embark on obesity and related diseases. 

Now that is yet another thing our common man takes pride in. If you ever report to him that he has diabetes and expect him to be anxious or upset, you are in for a surprise. He will accept the news with elation. On the contrary, if you tell him that he has no diabetes, he will get his blood sugars checked every week until it turns out that he has finally developed diabetes. Ask him if he ever had a chest X-ray done. He will smile mysteriously and come back the next day with a bundle of reports, which would include tests that you might not even have known existed. He might not have a single educational certificate to his name, but there will be no dirth of hospital records and lab test reports. Those are his greatest achievements in life. 

The hospital is his second home. Literacy exposes him to the content of numerous health magazines that he subscribes to. His comprehension of the information provided in these magazines will depend on the potential of his mind. The consequence is that most of the time, the comprehension is incorrect. The irony is that he loves to display this (lack of) knowledge at his next encounter with the doctor. At his visit to the doctor, he rarely talks about symptoms. Coz he has already diagnosed his ailment, and he has only come to the doctor for second opinion. The doctor’s proficiency will be assessed based on whether the doctor seconds or contradicts this diagnosis. For the doctor, there is then the painful process of first arriving at the symptoms of the patient and then making a diagnosis! 

Also, our common man only goes down the hierarchy of doctors. He will not allow referral from an MBBS doctor to a specialist; his is a process of reverse referral. Thus, an instance of chest pain will first take him to the cardiologist (who rules out heart disease) and then to a chest physican (who rules out lung disease), and then he will finally hammer at the doors of an MBBS doctor. By then, it is most likely that the pain would have been aborted on its own(the MBBS doctor might be lucky enough to get the credit!). 

Poverty is perhaps non-existent in Kerala. Every human being in this state has a house to live in, clothes to wear, and food to eat. Poverty begins on a higher scale in Kerala. You might be surprised to discover that someone who owns a house, a few grams of gold and a mobile, also owns a BPL (below poverty line) card. Likewise, the most common car on the streets will be nothing short of a Toyota. The most common setting in which you realize this is when one of these big-sized cars blocks a narrow lane (narrow lanes run along most residential areas and also a good part of the town). Also, the skill at driving is gauged by your speed and road-sense; the more speed you have and the lesser road-sense you have, the more competent you are, as a driver. Hence, the roads in the very heart of town often give you the feel of an arena where buffaloes and sheep and goats are released, and you see them all fleeing in different directions, oblivious to the existence of each other! 

To talk about every aspect of day-to-day life here would end up being a book rather than a post. So I shall stop here. Needless to say, there are people who have potential and substance….just that they occupy so little of our day-to-day lives here. I have a part-time driver now (to escape the stresses and mental trauma of driving here). He tells me something very sensible: ‘The frog thought the well is the world!’ All the good human beings in Kerala leave Kerala, for life here puts their endurance to test, and it inevitably gives way at some point of time. Others take to seclusion and silence. Our common man continues to set standards in Kerala, for neither does he allow privatization and the influx of other communities, nor does he treat himself to a taste of the vast world that thrives outside Kerala! 

Take home message: Kerala is a beautiful place to holiday in. But leave before you get a taste of the crux of life here.

Tags: kerala, common man, attitudes

A bleak winter sunshine, spreading its gentle warmth on earth, bringing with it nostalgic memories of the Christmas- New Year season in Bangalore….that was the note on which New Year commenced for me. Gentle….warm….a song in my heart….a bounce in my stride….a sparkle in my eyes.

The Bougainvilla was in bloom, and the pretty pink flowers cast a gentle blush on the plant. The plant stood in the mild rays of the winter sun, its rosy cheeks glowing in the sunshine, happy, fresh and so full of life.

My pigeon turned up faithfully for its breakfast. We had bought it about 2 months ago, and set it free after a week with us. It is happy in its freedom and in the company of its own species, but it faithfully visits us for its food. The other pigeons come too. But my pigeon drives them all away, and then triumphantly settles down to feed on the grains we put out in the garden. It then drinks water from the little pond, and joins its flock. The other pigeons stealthily feed on the leftovers.

The eagle is a fierce creature; but I have come to learn that it is also the most hard-working of all the birds around. In the mornings, while other birds chirp and fly about aimlessly and playfully, I catch sight of the eagle, laboriously gathering twigs and weeds and carrying them to its nest, which is high up on the branches of a tall tree. From the nest, its baby cries out to it. But the mother is too pre-occupied with her morning chores, and pays no heed to the baby. Though I am always terrified of this fierce creature, as it sits on the electric pole, whistling and scanning the earth for prey, I admire the meticulosity with which it goes about its daily chores.

It has been a season of cakes. So much so that I want to get rid of its lingering flavour. On New Year’s day, the cakes reached their peak. After our dean cut the cake, I surprised him with the little present I had bought for him. I had picked up a book I was certain he would love, and then I had scribbled onto a card words that conveyed precious emotions. When he called me later to thank me, what I noticed was that his voice seemed to choke; his words were lost upon me. I re-learnt a lesson that I seemed to have unlearnt over the years. Love demands acceptance, a whole lot more than it demands reciprocation.

I have loved life, and I shall always continue to love life. But I have lost the craving for long years ahead. For how much happier can one be? Contentment is my goal, and content I am. Content with the happy moments in life, content with the materialistic joys in life, content with the relationships life treats me to, content with my contribution to this world….there is no higher goal for me, there is no greater happiness awaiting me. Materialistically and emotionally, there is no greater happiness for me, than what surrounds me now. For as long as I live, I shall carry with me these treasures. But death scares me no more, for there is nothing more that awaits me in this world.
As I laugh with my students, play with the kids next door, smell the roses in the garden, hold monologues with the birds and the trees, allow myself to be infatuated by the cute guy I met the other day, I feel delightfully youthful. And as I silently comprehend behaviours and attitudes and lose myself into deep reflection, I feel not just old, but ancient. There is a strange gentle calmness within me. There are sorrows, but there is no longer the desire to burst into tears. There is happiness, but there is no longer the desire to lose myself into its heights. There is just that desire to hug the memories close, coz there is a strange comfort in looking back at them when the mind is tranquil. And to look back, there is a lifetime. For isn’t time measured by the variety and depth of experiences that one is treated to?

These are my thoughts as I turn 30. And as I post these thoughts on Fropper, I can’t seem to thank you all enough for enriching my life in numerous ways.

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The gentleman next-door often stops by to talk to me. A middle-aged man, and the father of three daughters, he has quite a few anxieties to share. I love listening to his perspectives on life. This morning, I was overjoyed when he told my mother that he found me to be a very receptive and sensitive child.
Sensitivity….it is the one trait I love about myself. The one trait which awakens my heart to the warmth of the sunrays that stream in through the windows in my room….to the chirping of numerous birds that celebrate yet another day on earth….to the breeze that blows across the garden, caressing all my plants….to the smiles and the tears that breathe life into this world. I feel intimately close to all that surrounds me….my soul becomes one with all that surrounds me….so much so that I cannot smile, until I have wiped all the tears that surround me. I am at the heart of things.

Sensitivity….it is the one trait my father detests in me. The one trait that brings in an unbridgeable gap between me and my father. Nothing can excite my father, just as nothing can depress him. There exists an infinite distance between him and all that surrounds him.

When I was younger, this one trait let me down on various occasions. Perhaps because the expression I chose to give it was raw. An emotional outburst- that was the only voice to my sensitivity. For my father, I was always the picture of everything that a child should not be. For a long time, I believed that I was erring. It took me a lot of time to arrive at the root of things. Human behaviour is complex….and it is fascinating. After a long phase of denial, when I obstinately believed that my father would eventually see my mind, I slowly learnt to understand that it was not to be so. Only a sensitive mind can understand another, and empathize with another. And sensitivity is an inherited trait.
It is a mammoth task to detach oneself from family. Especially since our individual acts bear an impact on one another. For a long time, I had to live with the trauma of being portrayed as everything that a child should not be. For my cousins who were very young, I was an outcast. After a point in time, it stopped hurting.
Children are the most miraculous phenomena in this world. As a child grows in mind, he slowly learns to trust his feeling, over and above all judgments passed by the society that surrounds him. To me, this is the most fascinating phase in life- watching a child on his journey to freedom- freedom of the mind. I watched my cousin gradually transforming from hostility to curiosity. I saw in his eyes the confusion, as he struggled to integrate in his mind the image that he carried of me in his mind, with the feel that I created in him. I waited patiently, and one beautiful day, his eyes settled. He had made that decision of trusting his feeling. My father had stirred a dust storm, and as it settled, the picture cleared.

Kerala is a peculiar mix of conservatism and traditionalism. There is a large segment of society that has no understanding of tradition, but they live in the perpetual belief that they are the true upholders of tradition, and that they are the ones guarding the value system of the past. And then, there is a small fragment that understands tradition in its true sense, and invisibly contributes to the basic order that continues to thrive in this society, despite the ever-multiplying pitfalls. That mix exists at the level of family too. A large segment of orthodox, conservative individuals, and a small fragment of sensitive, traditional individuals, who come as a welcome presence at the most trying phases in life. My mother belongs to that class of individuals. Perhaps a deep-rooted love for her offspring makes every mother a sensitive, non-judgmental individual, with an infinite potential to absorb. Even at times that we have a difference of opinion, my mother attempts to understand the thought that drives my behaviour. My mother is driven by the need to understand and bring to surface the goodness that thrives in her child, much more than identify and condemn the evil in her child. She is driven by the unshakeable faith in the goodness in her child. And for this reason, I love her infinitely. My mother derives happiness from my happiness. But for my father, my formal achievements are my only testimony. For my mother, I am a happy child. For she knows that the simplest joys of day-to-day life bring immense happiness into my life. For my father, I will always be his greatest disappointment, no matter how content I get to be in life.

Swathi and Siddharth are the kids next-door. Swathi reminds me of the girl I wrote about in my first ever post on Fropper- the girl with the stained clothes and uncombed tresses, sitting by the pond, watching the water-lilies and the fish, silently conversing with nature. Swathi is constantly captivated by all that she sees in nature- the plant with the red berries, the egret that faithfully follows the cow, the eagle that works laboriously to build its nest, and so much more. By evening, when her parents get back home, she is brimming with the visions and perceptions of the day. They listen to her patiently and attentively, and acknowledge her observations of the emotional world that surrounds her. This acknowledgement makes her feel good about her thoughts and perceptions, and she grows up to be a sensitive individual. On the contrary, I feel deeply saddened by the numerous parents who work long and busy hours, in the belief that they are ‘providing’ for their children. They fail to see the real needs of that young mind, and their children grow up to be insensitive, materialistic-driven individuals, embarking on discontentment and anguish very early in life.

Very recently, I met this individual who shared with me a few interesting thoughts. The people who set tradition, were obviously sensitive individuals, and they set standards that would survive the test of time. He likes to call them ‘references’, rather than ‘role-models’, for role-models are a transient phenomenon. Now, as a society evolves, the average common man gradually unwinds himself from the framework of tradition that ties him down to society, and breaks free from it. The 70s saw the evolution of the hippie culture- the first series of transformation to a way of life that was purposeless in its journey. A superficial way of life that merely revolved around idle celebration, with no roots and no goals, and the profound lack of the journey into the self. That was the beginning of the loss of sensitivity. 3 decades have passed. And there is turbulence in the hearts of people, gaining momentum. There is a background negativity, an unhappiness, a brewing quest- for what already existed, and was lost to time. A slow demolition is in store, and tradition shall resurface.
This acquaintance is part of a humanist organization- a highly unconventional, informal organization that targets this social outcry of an unsettled turbulence. The need for a ‘reference’….for a more meaningful way of life, is palpable. And this organization was born from this need. To screen for that sensitive and thoughtful segment of society that is largely wasting away, and to put them to the forefront- where they truly belong. To turn over the reigns of society to their hands, so that they set the standards. To translate the complexity of these standards into more comprehensible, practical themes for the common man. To bring in a way of life…a reference…that will settle the rising tempest in each one of our minds.

In the list of people who give me the courage to be myself and to take pride in all that I am, my mother is the first. Writing is the new voice to my sensitivity. And this has connected me to numerous other sensitive individuals across the world. They are individuals who reinforce my mother. I would like to especially thank Ledzep and Dagny, for they have contributed tremendously to my journey into the self, in entirely different ways.
Ledzep: That note on sensitivity in my blog on tradition, sowed the seeds for this post.
Dagny: History repeats itself. I like to believe that these superficial values are transient, and that the world that awaits our children will eventually get back to being the warm and sensitive world that it used to be.

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As a child, I loved epics. Now, as my mother narrates to me tales from memory and hearsay, of an era that I had not witnessed, it is with the same passion that I listen. Someday, I shall compile all those narrations into a book. 

As years add to my life, the urge to know where I come from….the urge to dig deeper into my own roots, dominates my inquisitiveness. I urge my mother to narrate to me episodes from her childhood, which give me glimpses of life then, and of people who were my own blood, but people who faded away into deep recesses of time as yet another generation unfolded.
I never cared much for my lineage or my roots when I was young. It was only as my mind grew with the experiences that life treated me to, that I paused to marvel at and treasure the emotions I felt and the thoughts that crossed my mind, most of which seemed to operate at a purely subconscious level. I never knew where they came from, and I seemed to have no control over them, but to flow with their natural flow, was to experience paradise. They took me across untrodden paths, undiscovered lands and uncharted seas….they took me to my first feel of infinity. 

It was for the first time that I regarded my mind as if it were something distinct from what I knew to be ‘me’, and I realized that my mind was a gift from my lineage- an immortal treasure that had been passed across generations, and perhaps the only immortal link between me and my ancestors. In science, they call it genetics. Suddenly, I felt very close to my ancestors. It was as if they stood by my side, watching me experience this moment of eerie elation. 

I had always known I borrowed from my mother’s lineage, much more than from my father’s. And I felt this special reverence for those ancestors I didn’t even know. 

My mother is my only link to my family clan. She tells me about the 300-400 years old ancestral house which was recently demolished. I always feel an ache deep within when I see its remnants, but then it was falling apart in any case. Now, only the foundation remains, and it is overgrown with grass and weeds. Where generations lived, the earth has now claimed back what belonged to it. The trees stand tall, some as old as the house, perhaps older, and I look up at them in silent reverence, for have they not witnessed my past? They have stood through time, witnessing all. My mother’s great-grandmother, who was a very religious and pious woman, and who mysteriously disappeared because of an apparently agonizing pain that brought into her life a lot of suffering. My great-grandmother, who would bustle about the house, seeing all, missing nothing, shouldering responsibilities with a composure that defied their magnitude. She was a beautiful woman, with profound emotional depth, and an intellect that surpassed her years. When she was eventually bed-ridden by a fracture than never healed, we cut her hair short, and she could have easily passed for a Caucasian. She was the picture of radiance….and of tranquility. Her absence remains a permanent void in my life and in my mother’s life. And then my grandmother, who I have no memories of, coz she passed away from cancer, when I was barely an year old. Music was her domain, and all her children inherited that gift from her. 

My mother tells me of a second cousin who was very philosophical from a very young age. He had no inclination towards materialistic aspects of life, and in his teens, he left home to lead the life of an ascetic. Even as a child, people found it hard to imbibe his philosophical and spiritual thoughts. I do not know why it left me with tears. Perhaps because I can on occasion feel what he felt. Those moments when a series of emotions and thoughts flow across the mind, dettaching one from all that is ‘real’, connecting one intimately to something that is more real- the inner self. For many people, this is madness. Simply because it is beyond their comprehension. 

I have often wondered what madness or mania means. These days, as I learn to integrate what I have learnt from Medicine and from life, I often believe that mania is a state where the subconscious mind unleashes itself from the conscious. And the subconscious mind is very powerful- like the sun. If we were to be exposed to the sun directly, it would blind us to everything external. In mania, we drown in the radiance of our own subconscious mind. Even in the brief moments of subconscious writing that I experience, I find within me a powerful emotion that overpowers all else, that makes me slave to it, that shuts out everything else. Words escape my mind much before they have come to the notice of the conscious mind. The conscious lags, and eventually fails, to keep track of and keep a check on the subconscious. In the end, I am drained, for it has been such a powerful emotion that has just left me.

One portion of our grove houses the dead; their ashes and their bones lie deep within the earth here. I wonder where the dead go. Can they hear us? In the silence of the grove, I always feel the invisible presence of my ancestors- their faces a blur, save for the ones who have been a part of my life in the past. In the fading light of dusk, I experience them within myself. And I want to tell them that I am indebted to them for their immortal gift that I harbour within. They have heard me. A soft wind blows and leaves rustle, as if echoing the acknowledgement of a hundred ancestors. For I have finally learnt to take pride in my lineage and to value it. 

I have watched death-rites being performed on the banks of the Bharathapuzha, which to me, is the soul of Kerala. The river fascinates me in a mysterious way. The culture that thrives along the regions that this river flows through, is what I relate to the most. Despite the fact that in reality, the river is alien to me. And yet, all the glimpses of life that are based on this culture, which I have experienced by way of books and movies and people, fail to surprise me. For that is the culture that thrives within my mind. Is this where I belong in truth? Is that why I experienced a supernatural connection with this river, even as a child, when we passed its banks on train journeys? It is my greatest desire to spend a day on the sandy banks of this river, for I know that I shall experience something profound. And it is also my greatest desire that in death, I would want my ashes to merge into this river. For this is where I have come from, and this is where I belong. 

Now, I find myself standing at a juncture, where I spread my tentacles deep into my roots, integrating with a past that is spanned across time, and from this pedestal, I look at a future that emanates from me, and that will span across time. Past, present and future merge at ‘me’. Did I just spell out ‘immortal’?

Tags: ancestry, roots, mind, immortality

She had noticed Deep on her very first day at work. Deep bustled about comfortably, while she tagged behind Stella, a little dazed. They were never introduced to each other formally.


One morning, Stella picked up a few pounds that someone seemed to have accidentally dropped on the floor, and she looked around. “Did anyone drop their money?”, she asked. “Oh! If you found any, then I must have”, came a voice. Stella turned back to find Deep smiling, his eyes mischievous. “How much did you lose?”, she asked. “Oh….doesn’t matter. Maybe one pound….maybe two….??”, he replied, still smiling. Stella waved her fist at him. “And if I were to give you this money, what would you do with it?”, she asked. “Mmmm….that’s a thought. Now I could take your pretty intern out for a date”, he said. And added,” And if there’s still some money left, I could buy you coffee! Deal?” Stella laughed and pretended to hit him, while he ducked. The pretty intern blushed at the adjective, and deliberately avoided Deep’s gaze.

At lunch, she was with Lobat and Solon. Deep was at the adjacent table, and having a ball of a time. He seemed to be a big favourite with the rest, and she wondered if she would ever feel that comfortable….that relaxed….that confident. When she was done with lunch, she went to put away her tray, and almost collided with Deep. “So, can I take you out?”, he asked. She blushed. “Do I take that for a yes?”, he asked. “You are pushing it too far!”, she said. “Looks like I will have to get Stella to talk to you!”, he said. She rolled her eyes, but he only smiled. Solon and Lobat joined them.

Next morning, she was shocked when Stella asked her as to why she broke Deep’s heart. At lunch, Deep joined them. She fought to keep away the tension. Deep ignored her totally, and spoke only to Lobat and Solon. That evening, he caught her on her way home. “So, would a movie be pushing too far?”, he asked. She looked at him straight in the eye. And she made her decision. “No”, she said. “Do you like funny movies?” She nodded. “Pick you up at 6 then”, he said.

Back in her room, she sat down on the bed. He seemed to have a romantic interest in her. She couldn’t be entertaining that. She had to let him know about Saurav. Then she thought about all their encounters at work, and smiled. The truth was she had a romantic interest in him too. A passing infatuation, she assured herself. She showered and she put on her favourite clothes. She didn’t need to wear a coat, but the cold draft was bad enough. She casually draped a blue shawl around her shoulders. She left her hair loose, and as she walked towards him, he refused to take his eyes off her. He seemed to be a little dazed as she greeted him. They enjoyed the movie, and after that, he took her out for dinner. At dinner, he seemed lost. “Aren’t you enjoying your dinner?”, she asked him, as she watched him meddle with his fork. “Definitely more than lunch”, he said. She looked at him questioningly. “Over lunch, I had to share you with Lobat and Solon….now, I have you to myself”, he said. Silence. Finally, she asked him,” What is your interest in me?” He had difficulty getting the words. “I like you. And I am attracted to you.” “So, what do you want to do about it?”, she asked. “Do you….I mean, are you seeing someone?”, he asked. She nodded….and then sighed. He smiled. “Me too….just that I am watching it break up”, he said. She raised her eyebrows. “Well….I am often torn between what I see at home and what I see around me. You see, my parents moved to the West when they were young, and we kids grew up here. At home, it is always a struggle to strike a balance between what we want and what our parents want for us. I have been into a relationship with a Spanish girl for the last 3 years, and it has broken my parents. I kept hoping they would cope eventually, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. And to top it, my girlfriend has moved to Italy to pursue her studies. Over distance, things don’t feel the same anymore. When we met last time, I felt a lot of things had changed between us. She has gone back, and nothing has changed on the surface. But deep inside, too many things have changed….and I doubt if we could ever turn the clock back. Now it’s just a matter of confronting it….which is perhaps the hardest!” She smiled sadly. He decided to move onto something brighter. “So, what does your boyfriend do?”, he asked. “Saurav was a disaster right from the start. Distance brought us together. But when we moved to the same city, I couldn’t take it. My life turned stagnant and I lost the drive to live and to look forward to the future. I don’t understand him any longer….and he doesn’t understand me either. But I don’t really know which is more painful….the trauma of being together or the trauma of the process of break-up. I guess it’s falling apart in any case….but we haven’t had the courage to confront it.” Silence.

After dinner, he dropped her home. As she looked up at him to thank him for the “date” , he kissed her on her cheek. “Sleep tight”, he whispered.

Next morning, as they met at work, no one could have sensed the emotional closeness that was built overnight. He pretended to not really notice her, and she smiled to herself when Martin asked her if Deep and she had fought. In the afternoon, they found a couple of minutes together. “You know what….you are conservative. You haven’t even changed your hairdo once!”, he said. “And I am not going to”, she said. “Of course, you are going to! You are getting your hair trimmed and you are getting a new hairdo”, he said. He grinned as he caught her annoyance.
That evening, they played table tennis with Solon and Lobat. And they met again for dinner. When he kissed her goodnight, she was reluctant to leave him.

Next evening, he took her out for a surprise. He drove her to the hill on Alexandra Palace, and she stood mesmerised, as she watched the stars above and the lights below. London looked so beautiful at night, lit up by all those lights that gleamed like the stars in the sky. She pulled her shawl closer and he held her hand as she took in the sight that made her hold her breath. She watched the Hertford line pass by in the distance- it looked so tiny….like a toy train, with its compartments lit up. He turned her around and hugged her. She made no attempt to unlock herself from his embrace. They hugged for a long time,perhaps taking in the feel of each other. He loved the fragrance of her hair; everything about her was intoxicating. Their hearts were pounding loud, and that seemed to be the only sound that broke the silence of the night. He asked her if he could kiss her. She was suddenly shy, and she blushed. He tried to draw her face to him, but she just stayed in his embrace, burying her face into his shirt. He laughed. “Do you plan to fall asleep in my arms?”, he asked. She said nothing. It was the most beautiful night of her life. Just the two of them, the grass beneath, the stars in the sky and the beautiful city in the distance. He then drew her face to him and kissed her. She closed her eyes. He loved the feel of the damp strands of her hair- against his face….against his neck. “Don’t ever trim your hair. I love your hair”, he said. She looked up at him. “I thought we were kissing”, he said. In the sky, the stars twinkled. On earth, a city slowly seemed to go into slumber. But they seemed oblivious to the whole world.

When he dropped her home, she went up to the door. And then, she came running back and hugged him. He kissed her tenderly on her head, and whispered,”Sweet dreams. Think of me.” It made it harder for her to leave. An hour later, she read a text message from him: “I can’t get you off my head. To be honest, I don’t even want to try!” she smiled and went back to sleep.
Next morning, they were together at work. He texted her: “ I will literally need to push you away to be able to get anything done!” She smiled. Solon looked at her suspiciously.

They met on and off. One Saturday, Deep came up to her, looking downcast. She waited in anticipation. “My girlfriend has come on vaccation. I will need to spend time with her and sort out things between us.” She nodded. She had known from the start that this was surreal….and it would end anytime. She knew this was the end. In the next couple of weeks, she saw very little of Deep. And then she heard that he had been accepted by the University where he had applied for his Masters. When she met him next, he looked sad and morose. His girlfriend had gone back to Italy, and the break-up had been dreadful. In many ways, he was looking forward to getting back to academics for a bit. The relationship had weighed him down. And then he looked at her tenderly and said,” You don’t deserve to be unhappy. You are beautiful….and you have a beautiful soul. Saurav is blocking you….stagnating your life. Break free….am sure you will find the courage to break free.” He kissed her and walked off, never once looking back. She watched him until she could see him no more, and wiped off the tears that streamed down her face.

It wasn’t easy; it took her nearly an year to break free from Saurav. But she managed eventually. And later, she would often think back to those times of her life with Deep, and wonder what that phase really meant. It was indeed a surreal phase, but the memory lingered and seemed to revitalize her. Life was never in black and white, was it?

Tags:

Thought I would give the flaggers something to work on....a little piece of fiction, written for the mere sake of writing.....

On the horizon, the sun was setting. And in my own life, a chapter was coming to a close. I took a rick to the next block, where I was to meet Rohan. Rohan was getting married in two weeks time, and I felt relaxed, contrary to all the times we had met before. I was early and as I waited for him, I thought back to all those times we had spent together. That was such a long time ago. And yet, as the darkness blurred my present, those moments felt so near I could almost touch them.

Life has its ironies. Sometimes, love blossoms in the most hostile of circumstances. We had spent a good part of our relationship, oblivious to the existence of our relationship. We would mail each other and talk to each other, and yet, we never attributed much significance to our relationship. We weren’t consistent either. And yet, at some point, love just creeped in. We felt something….something that was so hard to define. Something had changed in the course of our relationship. I had begun to finally take notice of our conversations. Anxiety creeped into my mind for no obvious reason and I found myself constantly interpreting our conversations and interactions….I found myself all worked up if I didn’t hear from him. I realized that he had found his way into my heart. I was both excited and nervous.

On an evening when black clouds built up in the sky, we were seated on the stone bench, and I was crying. “I feel very strongly for you. And yet, I feel at times that we are incompatible in some ways”, he was saying. I looked at him through my tears. His eyes softened. I put my hand past him to grab the tissues to wipe my tears, and found myself in a tight embrace. “I wanted the tissues”, I found myself saying, almost in a whisper. My tears stopped, and I just stayed in his embrace, resting my head against his chest. I didn’t want to move, partly because I was startled by his gesture, and partly because it felt so good to be there. I found my chin being lifted against him and I felt his lips on mine. I submitted to that kiss like a little child would. He suddenly drew himself away and looked at me. I had stopped crying. “I am sorry”, he said. That evening, I had driven back home in the rain, listening to cascades. That evening, my mother saw in my eyes a glow she had never seen before; I am sure she knew instantly that I was in love….for the first time.

There were more memories- some happy and some painful.... We had never really fought. But we were incompatible. Sometimes I don’t even know what that means ….

I suddenly became aware of his familiar figure walking towards me. Habitually, I felt butterflies in my tummy. He stood in front of me, 6 foot tall, and smiled at me. The butterflies disappeared, as if by magic. I felt very relaxed and smiled back. He led the way and we booked a table at the restaurant. Sitting opposite each other, I was bewildered by the peculiar mix of emotions I felt. I guess I was expecting a transformed Rohan. In two weeks time, he was getting married. I was perhaps expecting him to talk excitedly about his fiancé, his dreams and hopes, his wedding, and all that was part of being the prospective groom. But what was it I read in his eyes? He looked at me just as he had looked at me all those years ago, when I was a part of his world....when I was his world.
Perhaps I talked more. I talked about my life; never once did I touch upon his marriage. Not that it hurt, but since he refused to touch upon it, I didn’t want to.

When we were done with dinner, I wanted to leave. I had loved this evening- loved his presence….loved the ease with which conversation came….loved the togetherness. I wanted to leave because I didn’t want to give myself the opportunity to long for more. My mind was at peace with his marriage, and I didn’t want to break that peace. And yet, when he insisted on a stroll, I found myself complying. We walked in silence, lost in distant memories. The cool night air imparted a lingering freshness. He stopped abruptly and looked at me. I looked up at him. “I want to take you home”, he said. “Won’t I get late?” I felt obliged to ask. “I will drop you home”, he said. I nodded. To walk with him by my side, and to go home together, was a part of my dreams a long time ago.

When we reached his house, I became tight-lipped for some strange reason. We sat opposite each other, and he leaned against his couch, while I fumbled with a cushion, and looked away. The silence felt eerie. I looked at him once or twice and then looked away. He said nothing, and continued to fix his gaze on me. Eventually, he walked up to me and took my hands in his. I stood up, unsure of what was on his mind. He took me in his arms and hugged me. I felt calm and relaxed as I rested my head against his chest. He held me very close to him, ran his fingers over my hair and then kissed me on my head. I felt like a baby, and behaved like one. I rattled on at random, unsure of what I really wanted to say, until I got fascinated by a crease on his T-shirt. He watched me meddle with it, and when I looked up at him, I saw the fondness in his eyes. He sat down and he made me sit on his lap. I continued to talk, and he smiled the smile of someone who listens fondly, absorbing all the emotion, excitement and expression, but failing to have grasped a word of what was being said. At length, I paused, and he kissed me yet again on my head. Then he kissed me on my cheek. And then he traced my lips with his fingers, brought me close and kissed me on my lips so very slowly. I was dazed, but I responded. After a long kiss that seemed to have flooded life into my very soul, we drew our faces apart and looked into each others’ eyes. “Why can’t I understand you? Why are we like this?” he asked. I wondered if it mattered any more. He then lifted me and carried me in his arms to the bedroom. He had promised me that a long time ago- that he would carry me to my bed every night and tuck me in to sleep. He put me on the bed and kissed me. “Are you happy?” I found myself asking him. “I don’t know”, he said. “That’s what you always say”, I said. “And that is the truth….I don’t seem to understand a lot many things that happen around me and in my own life”, he said. As he kissed me, tears streamed down my face. “Does my marriage hurt you?” he asked. “No”, I said. And I meant it. He doesn’t know what he wants….and I don’t want him when he doesn’t really know. That night, we slept in each others’ embrace. At some point, I woke up to find that he had encircled his arm around me, and my head rested beneath his chin. I moved a little, and he drew me back, his eyes still closed, and kissed me on my head.

Next morning, when we said goodbye, I felt a strange peace. Perhaps I had lived my lifetime in a day.

Rohan never called me after that. I wasn’t around for his wedding. Two years after his wedding, I met him. As we sat across each other at the café, I found in those eyes something opaque and cold. They had stopped talking. It was as if a dream had died in those eyes…a flame had extinguished. When we said goodbye, he kissed me on my cheek. It felt cold. I withdrew, said goodbye and walked out into the night.

Tags: fiction

The sun was perhaps milder in Bangalore. I would walk out into the sunshine, and feel elated. The freshness of the morning lingered late into the day, and I felt as if I was bathed in dew. I loved the streets of that city. Looking at the traffic that glided across the streets early in the morning, I would feel the pace of that city within myself, and my heart would soar with optimism. The sunrays felt warm and heartening against the fog of the morning.

That city is tagged with memories, and as I drive along the streets, I am transported back in time to various moments that blur my present. It was a different world…. a different paradise.

I talk to the wilderness that surrounds me now and I tell the trees and birds about yet another enchanting world I had witnessed- a world that I belonged to, for hadn’t I borrowed from it tremendously? I feel torn between my roots and the place that I grew up in. Where is home?

Just as I begin to believe that I have settled in, a familiar fragrance….a familiar song….a familiar vision makes me pause and awakens a part of me that continues to belong to the cosmopolitan world I grew up in. I miss the ways of the city…. I miss the people and the conversations…. I miss the pace and the optimism…. I miss the inspiration and the freedom…. I miss the wide horizon that the city opened up to the ardent dreamer that thrives within me. There are elements of city life that are so hard to define and delineate, and yet they give character to life. (Yes, it is the same me writing!!)

Sitting in an outdoor café, I would watch the world go by. I loved the zest and the smiles I saw around me, for in them, I saw something of my own self. I do not know why it is, but the sight of trendy clothes, wrist watches, sun glasses, well-groomed hair, the fragrance of colognes and deodorants- they bring a certain joy to my heart. Life feels good. The damp hair always felt so fresh against my face and neck in the cool air of the night, and I loved the fragrance of the shampoo and the soap and the deodorant and the lotions that seemed to linger. It was like a halo of fragrance surrounding oneself.

I loved the people because they respected one another’s individuality. It helped me grow unrestricted as an individual. All I am today, I owe to the freedom of thought that the city offered me.

At the end of the day, life is fair. The fundamental principle of life is love. And if I can love, every world that I migrate to, will be a different paradise. There are things that I will miss of the ‘other’ world. But life will still be fair.
As I drive today, I smile through my tears. MLTR is playing in the background. The sun is hot, but what I feel is the tepid rays of the Bangalore sun. For the songs transport me to a different world and time. Passers by stare in amusement, but do I care?:)

Tags: nostalgia, bangalore, city, ways of life

This is the month of thunder and lightning. It rains in the evenings. The rains are sparse, but the skies are in a rage. Morning brings with it a warm and smiling sun, and all the table roses planted along the edge of the lawn, begin to unfurl. By noon, they are in full bloom. On weekdays, I learn to be content with the sight of these colorful flowers, half asleep in the rays of the morning sun. A jasmine blooms now and again and floods the garden with its fragrance.

As I water my plants, I catch sight of mynahs splashing about in little puddles of water left by the rain. A dove sits on the fence and eyes the little pond in the garden in thoughtful silence. It scrutinizes the surroundings, and after what seems like a long mental debate, flies over to the lawn. It takes little steps on the grass and walks towards the pond. An eagle perched on the electric pole whistles an eerie note and perhaps expresses its discontentment. The dove is alarmed and it takes off. A flock of parrots has now arrived on the scene. They hover around the trunk of a coconut palm that bears no leaves. They seem to have discovered something of interest in the holes made by the woodpecker, for they repeatedly thrust their beaks into the holes.

I have been home the last three days- just a little break so I could pause to feel the breeze against my face, smell the flowers in the garden, watch the birds in silence, and watch the numerous people on the street go about their lives.

I dropped in at the pet shop, and watched the fishes in the aquarium. I got three pairs home, and put them into the pond. I watched them gliding in the pond, taking little bites off the leaves of the water-lily and the grass that hung from the edges of the pond. At the first rumbling of thunder, they disappeared into the depths of the pond.

After three days at home, I look forward to getting back to work. Today, the rains wake me up. There is no thunder or lightning, but the rains are a continuous downpour. My fishes have taken refuge at the bed of the pond; they refuse to show up at the surface.

Today, I do not drive to work. I walk to the bus-stop. I pass a row of little houses with thatched roofs, unplastered walls and uncemented floors. This is a colony of weavers. A spinning wheel sits on the open verandah of each of these houses. Colored threads hang on a clothes-line, waiting to dry. An old woman sits by a spinning wheel and looks at me with obvious curiosity. I am mesmerized by the sight of these houses. It is like a scene from a Gandhian village. Or perhaps from a Van Gogh painting.
In the bus, I love sitting by the window. Raindrops fall across the front panel and remind me of ripples in the pond. I watch the flooded roads, the lush green trees and the pedestrians- wet despite their umbrellas; I watch a land alive and teeming with life.

At work, I get a warm welcome. I am filled in on all the fun I missed in the last three days of absence. I am told about the Medicine HOD- an elderly gentleman, who boarded the elevator on the first floor, got himself thoroughly confused, and finally alighted at the basement, only to walk up the stairs all the way to the second floor.

Patients keep streaming in. They come from such diverse backgrounds. Each of them is a story in themselves. Never before have I come across a population this rich in terms of life. Each interaction is an experience in itself. I find myself being exposed to those realms of life I have never traversed….to those aspects of life that I have unknowingly distanced from. Each of these interactions leaves within me residual emotions….emotions that raise questions and bring answers.

Students form yet another segment of work. I have never before had the opportunity to play a role in shaping and moulding young minds, most of which are raw to a large extent. It is almost a process of creative ingenuity- to know them, to mould them and to help them achieve what their souls seek.
There is a camp tomorrow. But my name does not feature in the list. That means I am missing out on the fun, because most of the people I hang out with, are part of it. I risk a verbal tiff and ask if I can go too. The answer is a yes. That calls for celebration. We are all overjoyed, because there is nothing we value more than being together in all our endeavors.

In the evening, the bus is crowded. I have a seat to myself. A lady carrying a child has no place to sit. I offer her my seat. For the rest of the journey, I find myself dealing with my foot being squashed, with wet umbrellas dripping onto my face, with being thrown off balance as the brakes slam abruptly, and much more. When it is time to alight, I use all my strength to squeeze past the crowd and get off. I have an umbrella, but with two carry bags, one in each hand, I do not really know how to use the umbrella. On a rainy day, one never finds a rick. So I walk the distance home, and reach home, drenched and exhausted.
Along these lines, a day passes. My mind is full….full with the richness of the day. Each day is rich with experience. Each day, I grow from within. ‘Knowledge’ is indeed exposure to life. The three years that I have spent in Kerala feel like a lifetime, for each day is so ‘full’….so ‘rich’. And yet, there is no depletion of that zest one feels for life; life continues to intrigue and to lure. The richness of life is indeed measured by the depth of the experiences life gifts us. On those terms, I found life in the West empty. For it was a new experience, no doubt. But it lacked the emotional depth that I find here. The relative absence of struggle, uncertainties, differences and other variables seemed to have taken away the depth of the entire experience. There is variety, but that variety is at the surface, and it is a variety contributed by intellect. The West opens up a whole new intellectual, thought-driven world to discover, but there is little emotional depth to experiences. Individuals differ in terms of their thought, logic and ideas, but emotionally, there is little scope for characterization. Perhaps that largely has to do with evolution in relation to the environment.

As the sun sets every evening, it has taken with it yet another day of my life on earth. I reminisce moments from the gone day. The day has been full and rich. I feel content. It doesn’t matter how much longer I have of this life on earth….only as long as every day of my life is justified….justified in the larger picture of life.

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‘Woman’…

When I was a child, ‘woman’ signified nothing more than a gender distinction. When is it that a girl grows up to be a woman? Biologically, adolescence marks this transformation. But emotionally, it takes much more than adolescence to grow into the mindframe of a woman….for ‘woman’ is a higher order of social ranking. To outgrow the shoes of an adult human being and step into womanhood is perhaps one of the most intense phases in the life of a woman.

I look at my own self and realize that I have undergone a silent metamorphosis in the recent years. As life unfolds, the realization of how intricate the relationship between woman and society is, dawns upon me.

The righteousness of a human being ends with being true to himself….true to his conscience. But for a woman, righteousness is about how she can be true to herself, and yet sustain the integrity of society. A woman’s emotional make-up is of a more complex nature, and for its healthy sustenance, it banks on the integrity of society. The more fragmented society is, the more complex is the nature of consequent emotional challenges that unfold in a woman’s life. Hence, a woman is trapped between the needs at the level of the individual and the pressures and demands posed by society. The easier way out is to be an activist, fighting for womens’ rights and liberation. That is but human. But how many of us have the ability to expand the horizons of our mind, live on our own terms, and yet not disrupt the integrity of society?

It is in this context that my mind gropes for a role-model….a role-model that defines ‘woman’ for me. I do not find such an existence in the celebrities of today….or for that matter, even amongst the numerous women I encounter in day-to-day life. There is nothing of value I see in the glamorous lives of most women today. Nor is there anything of value in the women who smear their foreheads with blood-red vermilion, perhaps as an emblem symbolic of their ‘traditionalism’. A traditionalism that permeates no deeper than the surface of their skin.

Where have the traditional women I saw all around me as a child, disappeared? I saw them in the cities and in the villages. I saw them in real life and on the screens. They were not defined by their attire or their ‘emblems’. Traditionalism spilled out of their souls, into the body that adhered to their souls.

Traditionalism thrived as much in the raw serenity of the rural woman as it did in the sophisticated refinement of the city-bred Indian woman. To me, these women defined ‘beauty’….a beauty that deepened with the addition of years. Those were faces carved by the richness of the emotional ups and downs of their individual lives….figures moulded by the richness of the struggles in their individual lives. Their eyes told tales of melancholy and of sacrifice, but beneath those melancholic eyes, something vital glistened. It was this feminine spirit that shone through those melancholic eyes that defined ‘woman’ for me. Like lamps lit up at dusk, the vitality of their souls lit up the darkness in their lives. Several movies and books of that era based their theme on these real life characters that set standards for society.

As I encounter circumstances and situations that pose emotional challenges of a more complex nature in my own life, I ask myself what it is that I want. And it makes me proud to say that I opt for acceptance, and I choose to expand the horizons of my mind to preserve the quality of my life at the level of the individual. For that defines my individuality.

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