Of Every Quarter

As the rain pours down today and thunder crashes outside I’m drawn to memories that can’t possibly be mine and yet form the veins of my existence. 

I’m an immigrant child. It’s something I say with pride. My heart bursts with the thrill of my gypsy roots. I live far away from anywhere my accent would place me, so every few days I get asked “where are you from?”
I’ve taken to laughing each time somebody asks me this question in anticipation of their puzzled frowns when I answer. It has been pointed out to me how rude this is, but for once my intent is not to be rude. I like saying,
“I’m from Chennai, that’s where I grew up but I’m a Malayalee. Honestly though, it’s probably more appropriate to say I’m an Indian because before we moved to Chennai my father was in the Navy and I spent some time in Goa and Arakonnam; After school I moved to Bangalore for a bit and spent what feels like an awakening in Mumbai.”

It’s a slow journey to Rajasthan where I find myself now but as people piece it together they go back to my name (Menon, mind you) and ask me if my family lives in Kerala. I like telling them then that my parents grew up in Chennai and Bangalore- not Kerala themselves. That a love story worthy of the movies took my grandmother on my mother’s side to Chennai with her husband while a love story as tragic as any Greek poet would write took my grandmother from my father’s side to Bangalore. 

This would mean that my mother is more Tamilian than Malayalee- she grew up in Chennai; while my father’s childhood gets more mongrel. He grew up in Sainik School, in a place called Bijapur and would holiday when he could in Bangalore. He speaks a smattering of Kannada,  Hindi, Malayalam, Tamil and English and understands a bunch of other languages, speaking it all together in a language of his own. It’s hard for most people to tell when he’s trying to speak one language instead of another (other than with English)- it sounds the same but funnily enough he’s understood.

And so I was born with the bloodline of my gypsy grandparents. To draw from poker, I saw their stake of immigrant lives and raised them on it, moving more than them, more than my parents in their life on Naval bases (we’re counting up to each of your 26, oh parents of mine).

But it’s a funny story that started this entire legacy that can’t be measured in wealth.

(Note: Look for the Malayalam to English translations at the bottom of this post)

Nobody who has met my mother’s parents can deny that my Ammama and Ammachan were madly in love up to their dying breath. By the time I met them Ammachan was terribly ill from emphysema and Ammama was losing the power of her heart and sight from the complications of diabetes, and yet, as Ammachan sat with Ammamma on the dining table or Ammama called out “Noku (look)” to Ammachan in the middle of her TV serials that nobody else was allowed to make a sound through, there was a peace between them- a love that was theirs.

I didn’t know it then and can barely believe it now, but there was almost twenty years between Ammama and Ammachan. I’m told that Ammachan at one point had declared he didn’t want to be married and one day, on a visit he saw Ammamma in the porch of her house and found his heart had changed his mind. I like to believe that he stood mesmerized by the beauty he saw debating with himself about the child she was to his late thirties and finally gave up the battle and spoke with Ammamma’s father. Muthashan wasn’t terribly rich and he has a lot of children to take care of.  I’m told Ammachan and his family met with Muthashan, he was convinced that his Lakshmi would be taken good care of because of the family Ammachan came from, and agreed to the marriage. It was that easy.

And so my Ammamma found Chennai- a city that I can imagine being so much more her style than Pattambi, that gorgeous little village (now town) in Kerala where she grew up. Mind you, from my few visits to Pattambi I can tell you that I will forever hold a torch in my heart for the place. The Tharavadu (ancestral home) with its endless well, steep stairway and wooden floors, the temple with its Kollam (a Kerela version of a swimming pool), and Jolly cottage are filled with memories that I can’t place of joy and laughter. 

There is a room that Apputimama, Ammamma’s youngest brother, used to live in. I remember for some reason this being my favorite place in the mini Tharavadu. In our U shaped house, Apputimama’s was the section that was by itself. His rooms were in the first floor. I used to be scared mindless about going there alone- spiders, darkness and any number of monsters would jump out of crevices but the lure of Apputimama’s voice and actions as he pulled out book after book from his vast library and point out the joys of the world in them was more than I could resist. My bachelor uncle was every kind of eccentric but nobody would dare question his love for books. My mother likes to point out that his book collection, before it was emptied, was probably worth as much as the house is. A cousin found her greatest plunder in Apputimama’s books- of the many wonderful things there was a first edition Shakespeare. I’m not surprised. The leftovers I rescued from the trash cans may not be first editions but they smell of adventures and many evenings spent in discourse. 

This is the one thing that makes me like my Ammama. She was a voracious reader. I remember that towards the end, what upset her more than my Velliamma insisting that she follow her dietary restrictions, was the fact that she couldn’t read. She had this humongous magnifying glass with which she would struggle to piece words together. Ammama would read in Tamil and Malayalam while Ammachan read his English novels beside her, his glass of whiskey (or was it rum?) on the table between them- a companionable silence filled in by the ads on TV.

But we weren’t similar at all my grandmother and me. She was the young beauty whisked off her feet by a debonair older husband. A man who introduced her to the many wonders of the world and loved her for the enthusiasm she brought back to them. They really were a sight to behold even in their old age but when I look back to the pictures of their youth- that is when I truly lose my breath. The pictures have a woman in clothes that would put even the fashionistas of today to shame. She had poise and grace to match a queen, and beside her smiling like the cat who knew he won the world is my grandfather in his suit, neatly combed hair and perfectly styled mustachio. When I close my eyes and try to remember the picture I also see a car and a pipe, sometimes a telephone- the signs of wealth, the proof of their life, a far cry from my other grandparents.

My Achachan and Achamma were the very opposite it would seem. I have never met Achachan. I know little about him other than his love for cycling (like Achan), his insistence on having his children learn their arithmetic tables absolutely right (like Achan) and his quick temper (like Achan). When Achan’s youngest sister was 6, Achachan passed away. I always thought he died alone of a heart attack on his bicycle but Prasanna Cheriamma told me the details when we met last.

Where Amma and Velliamma’s childhood in my mind is of studying in the best private school, being chauffeured around in cars and spending weekends on the beach after a movie; my picture of what Achachan could offer his five children on his meager income as a post master casts the Vakkiyls in a grey pallor that bursts into surprising light each time I hear one of my aunts or uncle laugh as the wise adults they are.

I’m told that Achachan was working with the Indian Postal Service. A funeral is really the worst time to ask for details so I didn’t, but I know that there was a common house for men and another one for women in Bangalore where all the recruits lived. One by one everybody in both common houses got married. While I can’t grasp at what Achachan wanted, what is clear is that he went home to his village in Kerala once and came back with a bride. 

Now my Achamma, if you see pictures of her (and I’ve only ever seen one from that far back) is the picture of a Malayalee beauty. She married young (like my Ammamma) and though the pictures have faded into a black and white sepia, you can see a shy woman unsure of herself attempt to sit up straight for a picture, her face framed by a shock of curly hair pulled back. She looks shy, like she would do whatever it was that she was asked to. And maybe she did. 

I’m told that unlike Ammachan who fell in love at the first sight of his future wife, Achachan married Achamma in what was (and probably continues to be) an acceptable barter. For his sister to marry the man who had "enquired" about her, Achachan would have to marry his brother-in-law-to-be’s sister. I could draw a diagram to explain this, more easily understood but the crude way to explain it is that the daughters of each family were exchanged for the sons to marry. 

I don’t know how happy or unhappy anybody was about the arrangement. I have reason to believe that there were some tensions but these memories can’t be mine because I haven’t seen the house in Bangalore that my Achamma lived in.

I’m told it wasn’t poverty but my privileged mind with its privileged upbringing finds that hard to believe. Achamma lived in a four room house with her husband, children and a colleague of Achachan's with a compound bathroom to share with people in other houses. Her oldest son (my father) was sent away to Sainik School because it was all Achachan with his ambitions for premium education for his children could afford (Note 1). I remember Achamma telling me this story, but if the voice I remember is indeed hers I find it hard to believe that the memory is mine. 

I can hear her voice as she tells me in Malayalam in that soft voice I would have to tilt my head to hear. She tells me Achan was a sickly child. He always had a cold sniffing and sniffing constantly looking malnutrition-ed. He had a handkerchief, often hers that he would twirl around his finger and walk around with. When he was (I wonder if I have this right, I can only hear her say she was young) six, Achachan came to know of admissions in a Government Residential School where boys would be taught in the English medium at the State’s expense with the hope that they would serve in the national defence when they grew up. He offered to coach a neighbor’s son while teaching Achan. 

If my childhood learning Maths with Achan is any indication, I can imagine the thirst for knowledge those evenings stoked and the stark terror that any incorrect answer on a test would bring. I have no doubt anyway that both Achan and this neighbor’s son were thrashed impartially into learning all the facts it takes to do well at one of these tests. 

When the results came they found that Achan had cleared the papers while the neighbor’s son, with his less frightening father, hadn’t. I always ask Achan why he wrote the exam if he was so frightened about leaving home and he always looks at me like he is asking himself how somebody he has invested so much in can be so foolish. He yelled at me last time in his attempt to explain that he wasn’t spoiled like our generation is. He did what he was told to- there would be consequences for anything else. What he was told to do then was to excel at this exam despite being the sniffly dunce (Note 2) that he was deemed to be; that his father did not need permission to make him write an exam. 

I suspect he’s right about that, we really are privileged in knowing we can get away with the choices we make. I know when my parents tried to pull that trick with Ettan it didn’t work at all. They wanted him to join the National Defence Academy after his 12^th standard and seeing no way to escape writing the test (is it a good time to point out that when my brother was born his name was decided on because Flt. Lt. Tarun Menon sounded best of all the options they thought of?). Ettan did everything he could to fail the exam- he makes no secret of it and there were no “consequences” other than my parents accepting his choice. 

And so, on clearing the exam, Achan was bought one trunk and whatever else was on the list of demands Achachan received from the school to prepare him for the next seven years of his life. I’m told Achamma broke down and amongst the few times in her life refused to do as she was told to. Achan was her first son, the boy who survived despite his elder brother’s death in infancy a close year before, her Sivan. But Achachan held his ground, locked Achamma into a room and made a little boy say goodbye to his mother from a window while she cried rivers (Note 3).

Achachan wasn’t a bad man at all. I’m realizing as I write this that it come across as being that because if somebody did that to me I would run screaming for the hills accusing him of abuse. I don’t think his intent was to hurt anybody. Achachan was a poor man who was doing everything he could to give his five children an education that would find them a way out of the poverty he suffered and didn’t take any pride in. (Note 4)

Baby Mema told me a story about him- Baby Mema is the youngest of Achan’s siblings. She says that when she started school a van was arranged to pick her up and drop her back- a luxury in those times, especially on a post master’s salary. This convent that she went to was just far enough for a little girl to not be able to find her way back home from and thus the luxury of a van. This is the story in Baby Mema's own words,
"On the very first day, my dad was busy and so sent me in the van putting me in charge of a 7^th std student of the same school, called Sheela, requesting her to drop me in my LKG class. As planned, the van dropped us kids at the school gate and Sheela took me by hand to my LKG classroom and since it was quite early, my teacher Ms. Dallal was not yet in class. Sheela told me to sit in the first bench and wait until my teacher came. I guess I waited for sometime and not finding anyone come in I walked out the gate (God knows how I found it) and then walked all the way home from Frazer Town to Shivaji Nagar (what Google maps says is a 2km walk).
I reached home around 11.30 or 12, that too since my house was at the corner of two roads, my mom was looking out of the kitchen window and saw a little girl with a red sweater with lot of slush around her legs, walk past her window. She initially thought that the red sweater looked similar to her baby’s only to suddenly realize with shock that the child indeed was her baby. She rushed out to pick me up from the other road and then all hell broke loose. My dad took the van driver, the teacher, the gate keeper, etc to task and that was the end of my van usage." 

Mema says Achachan didn't trust her with the van anymore and so would drop her to school and back everyday but I can't help but think that a part of it was also that he was a softie :)

I’m sure Achachan wasn’t cold, he was a man of his time making sacrifices whether in his life or another’s for what he believed was a greater good, things that must be done.

When Achachan passed away Achamma went into what can only be called depression. This was even before Achan was married so the woman she was got lost in the tangle of sorrow and confusion she felt at his sudden instantaneous death to a massive cardiac failure. The story Prasanna Cheriamma told me is that Achachan was cycling to the house that was being constructed in RT Nagar- the three bedroom house with two bathrooms of their own- a step forward in life. He collapsed while still on his bicycle (note5) but managed to have Prasanna Cheriamma called from her classes at the veterinary college. When Cheriamma rushed back, she took her father to a clinic close by where he was injected to bring his BP under control while they made a longer journey to a bigger hospital. By the time Cheriamma had him bundled into a taxi- a rare luxury that she couldn’t enjoy that day, she could feel his heartbeat gallop even faster. They cut the web of a toe to relieve some of the blood pressure but the man in the clinic had injected him for low blood pressure instead of high, ensuring his death. 

My aunt had one brother at sea to inform of their father’s death, two young sisters and a brother at home and one mother who did not know life outside the four walls of their house. Achan I’m told couldn’t even make it to Achachan’s funeral. He received news of his father’s death two days after the last rites- something the eldest son usually performs. I remember somebody mentioning that Achan had received his first stipend as a cadet earlier that week and had set aside money to finally give his father, a token of one dream coming true. He didn’t get the chance.

The Achamma I visited every summer in Bangalore was a quiet woman. I knew little about her other than how she would plead with her children and their spouses not to punish her grandchildren as all us cousins would get together and turn her house upside down. All the ettans would climb up the mango tree in our backyard yelling incorrigibly or turn Achamma’s bedroom into a skating rink by emptying a tin of talcum powder to slide around in.  As I grew older I saw a woman who shrank further and further into herself not even being able to hold her books of prayer or recognise the faces of her children. I always wondered if she saw Achachan in the dreams she would wake up from. I wonder if it mattered to her that none of her grandchildren ever met him. I’d like to think she had a fire in her that wasn’t entirely extinguished from being a woman of her time; that the bursts of anger on her sickest days weren’t her only release from injuries inflicted years ago.

My Achamma passed away a month back. I woke up to 5 missed calls from my mother and called back to hear Amma telling that Achamma had passed away. I remember feeling relieved. The woman I spent my college years in Bangalore visiting wanted nothing more than death even as she watched life go by from her place beside a window. She was ill- physically and mentally but most frighteningly, every time I saw her I felt like her soul had already died and that when she saw the rest of us she felt ashamed. On my lowest days I felt like she could see right through the façade I would put up for her benefit into the shame in my soul and on others I thought she felt ashamed of having to be taken care of by the son she took care of. 
On a note that has nothing to do with the rest of this telling- my Elema is a gift to the family with how much love and understanding showered on Achamma well after Achamma could no longer recognise her despite seeing her almost every hour of the day. 

In a strange stroke of luck I managed to get onto a plane to Bangalore that morning and make it in time to see Achamma more peaceful than I had in years. Achan truly does have the worst kind of luck. He was in Kerela to attend a Pooja that was meant for Achamma, something that my otherwise very practical father was told would ease her soul. When he got the news he hurried to Coimbatore to catch a flight to see his mother one last time- a flight that was delayed twice before being cancelled. His cousins who left Kerela at the same time that he was in Coimbatore for his flight, reached Banaglore hours before he did despite hurrying into a taxi as quickly as he could. 

As we waited for Achan that day my cousins, aunts and uncles from across the country came to Elechan’s house. We were her legacy and as each person walked in I couldn’t help but marvel at what this unlikely couple, thrown together as a bargain, had achieved for the world.

It took me back to when we sat around Ammama as her life slowly ebbed out of her. I know we sat around her- Reikhi and Pranic Healing all around and Oppa straight in from the UK changing her clothes and singing to Ammama as she drew her last breaths.

Both my grandmothers passed way in peace- one with all her family around her and the other in the peace of the early morning looking more serene than ever before, still waiting for her son to return. My grandfathers died differently but both in their daughter’s laps. One left a family that needed to pull itself together and find a way to survive while the other left a family who mourned his loss but celebrated the life he lived.

When Velliamma and Velliachan  (my mother’s sister and her husband) drove up from Chennai to pay their condolences I realized that I was in a room full of the people my four grandparents caused to happen- a room that was bathed in the sparkle of laughter and a certain togetherness. Their life, their sorrows, the dreams they had, the people they were- the people we are. Every chance was held together in this room.

Us cousins were banished into Amu and Ponnu’s room for being too loud. The “adults” (as if we weren’t that already that with my two brothers’ wives in amongst us grandchildren) smiled at us as they said we were too loud for a house in mourning. But, I wanted to shout (and knowing me, I probably did), we weren’t a house in mourning- we were in house in celebration; a celebration of the legacy my Achamma and Achachan had left the world. 

--

A special thank you to my Baby Mema who read this and tried as best she could to point out my madness and prejudice without being judgmental about any of it. These are her notes to clarify a lot of what I got horribly wrong. 

Note 1: I personally wouldn't put it this way because it was prestigious and honorable at that time to enroll one’s child for the service of the nation and not because of an affordability issue. I’m not sure if I’m right or wrong but my understanding is that it was not very cheap to do so and had tough entrance exams and interviews to get through. Your dad was brilliant in academics and so he got through to Sainik School

Note 2: He wasn't a dunce! There are stories of him and Prasanna winning prizes like toys for standing first in class

Note 3: Haven't heard about this part and don’t think it was necessary because nobody raised their voice against my dad's, ever! Other than under-the-breath protestations once in a while by my mom, or shedding quiet tears which was always over looked because the need to do what's best for everyone prevailed on dad and mom was considered as not having seen enough of the world to be able to know whats best! I don’t blame him for it because unlike today, that’s how all families behaved where the father was truly the head irrespective of whether he had the capability or not  

Note 4:  I know that each one of us found my dad very strict and found nothing wrong with not being given the chance to voice our opinions because the families we lived and interacted with around us, too behaved in exactly the same manner. That’s how below middle class families lived and we were happy too because the expectations were not there at all in the first place to feel unhappy or disappointed. 

Note 5: Either you got it wrong or she has- the fact is that he reached our constructed, completed and now rented house, collected the first rent, felt uneasy and went to our neighbor uncle(his own friend’s house and told them he was feeling uneasy and got them to call  call Prasanna from college over telephone

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Malayalam to English

Achachan	Paternal Grandfather
Achamma	Paternal Grandmother
Achan	Father
Amma	Mother
Ammachan	Maternal Grandfather
Ammamma	Maternal Grandmother
Cheriamma	Aunt (father's younger sister)
Elechan	Father's younger brother
Elema	Father's younger brother's wife
Ettan	Elder Brother
Mema	Youngest Aunt (father's younger sister)
Tharavadu	Family Home
Velliachan	Uncle
Velliamma	Aunt (Mother's elder sister in this case)

Of my love for water

A lot of people have asked me about Petrichor. I love the rain and often times the anticipation of it more- the smell of the world just before the clouds burst open- and thus Petrichor. 

--

It rained last night when I was sleeping and I woke up today to a different world. 

As I touched my skin this morning I felt like a different person, the air smelt different too but I was still me and the house looked the same.

Rain for me is magical. It has the power to wipe me clean, to pause time and circumstances to make peace with them. To stay calm and wait as the world continues to be in motion, bringing me all I want heaped on a silver platter. As much as I love that platter what I crave most is this moment of weightless suspension. Everything is tranquil here just like it is at the bottom of a swimming pool.

My brother tells me I learnt to swim as a toddler but that my introduction was more graceful than his to the world we both love so much. He claims that at some unknown age soon after he could walk, my father- man in the navy- the man from whom we have inherited our deep, unquestioning devotion to water bodies- picked him up and threw him into the water. 

Ettan says that like any child he floundered a little bit under my father’s watchful gaze (and my mother’s silent- voiceless aquaphobia) and then paddled around merrily for the rest of the day.

I must be clear that a) I have no idea how this boy remembers all this and b) my parents love my brother. He is, after all, their cherubic first born who to this day laughs merrily at the slightest provocation. I must also clarify that as barbaric as it sounds, I wholly support this dumping-of-toddlers-in-water-bodies-under-controlled-environment method of teaching, especially when I meet adults who can’t swim and don’t understand the best friend they have given up on- everybody is always regretful.

My introduction was not quite the same (according to my brother with his elephantine memory). I got a pink polka dotted bikini (despite it not being yellow, it must be said that I was quite a fashionable toddler), a matching float, and my father’s shoulders as we chilled in the sea beside Goa’s beaches. I also got a pool and very specific lessons on how to and not to breathe and co-ordinate my limbs. At some point we bid adieu to the float- I’m sure it was more from my family’s collection exhaustion from filling it with their life breath each time I wanted a swim- which was pretty much everytime I saw water- which, incase you haven’t connected the dots yet- on a naval base, on one of the most beautiful coastlines of the world- is a few times each day.

When Achan retired from the Navy and we moved to Chennai. Amma signed us up for swimming coaching. 

Here’s another something you must know of my civilian childhood- those stories you hear about kids who have done more extra curricular activities than most sane adult indulge in through their whole life put together- that was my brother and my childhood. Between the two of us (and then if you throw in Oppa who for all intents and purposes is much more sibling than cousin) there is very little that we have not done as children. 

And so of course if Oppa was swimming for the country when we moved to Chennai, Ettan and I would swim atleast state.

Every evening we’d be off to the pool to swim swim- swim- swim- swim. 

This was competitive coaching though, so we got whipped by the nylon end of a whistle for striking out wrong or splashing about in the water instead of working on speed or technique. We’d be taken to task about turning up 15 minutes late- "20 laps extra", or turning up exhausted- "get out of the pool and run 50 laps around the pool- WAKE UP!"

I loved it. I know if Amma or Ettan are reading this- especially together they’re going to look at each other with that this-one’s-memory-is-a-joke look but I swear I did. I love being pushed. I like having my endurance tested and beating the crap out of a challenge you will set out for me. I like basking in the glory of that victory. I learnt that as a child when the coach- Pratap Sir would clap us on the back with a huge smile for having learnt something well or swimming into the deep end when told to and not harassing him about it, or diving off the highest point on the dive pyramid (I’m just calling it that. I don’t have the slightest clue what it’s actually called) when your big brother thinks you won’t and has already started bullying you about it. 

Of course I made faces and pretended to hate my coaching classes- I was some single digit age when we’re meant to hate all authority figures and I didn’t know myself well enough to not care about what the done thing is.

The last time I was part of the team that was coached, I got the back of my foot stuck on some ledge and had a hunk of flesh ripped out of my foot. I was meant to swim 5 laps across the breadth of the pool and I remember crying through it and saying I was tired (because as an active child who knows what pain is) while Pratap Sir having dealt with my crap a hundred times before firmly told me to just shut up and keep swimming. 

When I did get out of the pool (after finishing all my laps let it be said) and he saw the mess my foot was, poor Pratap Sir was more upset than I was. It’s weird but I still remember going to SMF Hospital where they said some new bandage had come in that would deal with the wound better than having to get stitches and hearing my mother talk about Pratap sir apologising to her beside the pool while I was in the shower washing off the chloride before being taken to the hospital.

By the way, the hospital lied. The stupid wound took 2 or 3 months to heal and needed to be redressed everyday. I hated it but love the softly fading scar.

During the time it took for my foot to heal I know Ettan stopped going to his coaching lessons so when I was completely healed I wasn't sent either. They were really more about him than me anyway-  in the first state level event that I was signed up for (and the only one for me) Ettan finished 3^rd in freestyle for his age group while I came last. The crowd cheered me for having finished because of how far back I was! 

And so Pratap Sir and I never really worked together after that day and the SDA pool in Shenoy Nagar just became this pool that I thought of as having swum around in knowing full well that kids were pissing their life out in as explanation for why that particular pool has chlorine enough to kill anything but us thick skinned humans.

Then I started traveling from one coast to another swimming in the sea, challenging the waves as I swam deeper and deeper in; Enjoying the excitement of first swimming out through rough waves to calm seas and then- the far more thrilling challenge of swimming back to shore while the waves throw you in whatever direction they feel like in a battle to hold you forever. 

Amma if you’re reading this- I’m not reckless;  I make sure to swim only as far as I can see another human being and if not then to make sure I tell the lifeguards on the beach and swim in their line of sight. 

Recently I was in what is popularly called a “bad space”. I needed an escape and despite my derision of pools only four feet deep I decided to make a run for it and work off my thoughts in a pool (I’m not a runner. Think Phoebe-from-Friends not a runner). I swam lap after lap not realizing the time go. 

I wasn't racing against anybody this time, only my thoughts and we have a lifetime together, speed would take me nowhere. The pool was mine as much as my thoughts were and as I swam I felt some of the caged anxiety drain out of me. 

There is a rhythm to swimming. One-two-three-four-five-six breathe or dip--- breathe------dip---- breathe------. It’s a pulse that codes into your heart beat and clears your mind. I felt suspended, time didn’t mean anything, physical limits didn’t either because, there was no conscious thought, lesser conscious action- it dawned on me that time is elastic.

Of course I got out of the pool and my mind caught up as I stared out of a window- even after a swim I'm still me. But I did it everyday for the next ten days. Everyday I would stake claim to two hours of my life and make it mine. After many years I dived off a board giggling like I did at 6. My father joined me a few days- we didn’t talk or even acknowledge each other in the pool but strangely I felt at peace- like life would work out anyway.

It’s been two weeks since those ten days and I’m on a quest to find a pool in my little desert city. One I can cycle to everyday and stake my claim of two tranquil hours in everyday. 

But today I woke up to that feeling that I need a swimming pool for- that feeling of infinite possibilities as you tuck your ears under the surface and watch the world go by through shuttered eyelids. 

Everything is possible, everything is rushing to you as you drift on- life is blue-green-tranquil perfect. 

My mother and her surprises

I have strange memories from when I was a child. The sun felt different against my skin and retrospect makes my vision clearer, the dust of wisdom gained from disappointment doesn't cloud my vision in memory.

I was listening to this throwback compilation by U-Penn's desi a Capella band and realised I'm a child of the 90s. I may have come chocking, kicking and screaming into this world in 88- and yet the music that makes my heart melt (unconsciously and embarrassingly) is from what the screen tells me is the 1990s.

Yes, this isn't where I started but I get side tracked by the opening dusty little rooms in my mind and the people who inhabit them, you will forgive me.

The memory I have listening to this compilation is, again, of my mother. Always my mother. She was and continues to be the greatest advocate of surprises. The small things would come gift wrapped in the bubble wrap of happy, the big things would shimmer and shine with a certain dazzle nobody else can conjour. My brother has picked up on this fascinating art but Amma is, without a doubt, the ruling queen of all things surprise.

Now, I was born a morose old soul who felt the weight of the world and lashed out in dark mood swings. It's quite a shame really to be born into a large family that is so energised by the thought of every breath and a life that has given so much, to find that the one dark unpredictable cloud in the room is really- the baby of the family. I like to think that it adds a dollop of the "unexpected" and spices things up in the family. That is far from the truth and I will be the first to admit it, but let's not pay heed to the truth for today, for today we will believe the version my kind family at their patient best will explain to me and I will get on with the memory that drove me back to this blog after so long.

Chennai is a very hot city. For a child with trouble being in a good mood, the heat that wrapped itself like a thick blanket around my mind filled with the worries of the world. This is bad news.
In Madras (yes Chennai now but we ignore that as we do my sullen demeanor) it is inescapable bad news. For a child sitting in the front seat of a navy blue Maruti van powered by an LPG cylinder and cooled by an AC that would only work on being fueled by acceleration... I can't begin to explain the tragedy. Nobody should be subject to such melodramatic tragedy.

Amma would drive us, the world and God knows who else all over the city in this car. We had a music player that I think may have been more important to Amma than the gas tank. I can sing more RD Burman and Mohammed Rafi songs than I can explain to the people who catch me singing along, or in fact myself, thanks to the many car drives to music, dance, tuition, schoool, I-35, birthday parties and everything in between.  

I was just discovering going out with my friends when the film Na Tum Jaano Na Hum released. I can't explain why this was the movie we (and I don't remember who else was part of this group) chose to watch but I remember coming back and announcing that at some point of time we should buy the cassette (yes that is how long a time back this was, we bought cassettes). 
Given the tone of this post so far you get no prize for guessing that a few days later on our way back from somewhere, while we sat baking in our trusty Maruthi Van at the traffic signal in Annanagar's famous Roundtana, I announced that whatever new music was playing on the cassette player royally sucked and Amma had no taste in music.
I have always thought that Amma deserves a Nobel Peace prize for calmly telling me that this was music from Na Tum Jaano Na Hum before gunning the accelerator to cool, I suspect, my head.
I destroyed her little everyday surprise and it wasn't the last time.

The other time I remember with frightening clarity is when I was forced to move with the family out of one house to where we now live. I had my reasons, very many actually,that I continue to think are more than valid. I explained my point of view to my parents over and over again. I think I even went on a hunger strike and some strange version of mouna vrath  that only the two then villains in my life- my parents, were subjected to. The thing about my parents though is that they have never ever given into a tantrum, a lesson I am grateful (now, most certainly not then) to have been taught very early on in life, and we moved to this new house.

Unlike often before I suspect Amma felt guilty about this one. She knew what it meant to me for them to give in just that once and just how alone I felt for not winning. So one day I came back home to find Lalith and Amma working together to set up a Tata Sky Set Top Box. This was the year it was just introduced and Chennai unlike any other city in India could not access cable TV without a digital box. In that world I was one of the few privileged children, who despite my atrocious 10th standard results still had access to cable TV. I couldn't be less impressed. I was too upset, or so I let her believe.

I'm quite sure I'm screwed now. Karma is finally catching up.
Amma I still love the surprises, nobody shall ever know but it is true. Whether it is the surprise of a special dish at dinner, kulfi in the freezer on a hot summer day, a note in my suitcase when I walk into yet another new life, an elaborate party, the not-so-surprising-anymore surprise-birthday-party or a carefully and secretly thought out gift, I will always love all of it not because it is about me (ok, maybe a little) but because it captures who you are- the master happy maker.

If you've ever met my mother you know what I'm talking about.
Tarun Menon, sharpen up those skills, if you've got all the good genes you might as well make the best of them.

Here's the compilation that started this up
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lErtjguuvSw

Some days

Some days I wake up convinced I will be fine.

I'm woken up by the ring of my alarm instead of another dream of you. I'm chained to no memories- not good nor bad. My clothes- washed over and over again since you last saw them, bare no smell of you on this morning. I don't feel the phantom of your touch every time I feel the wind on my skin nor hear your sigh in every rustle of leaves.

I know for certain on days like this that I will be fine; that it will get better. I have reason to believe that with time I will find every shard of my crushed soul and glue it together transforming into somebody more breathtaking and complete than you ever knew.

On days like these I'm told there's a skip in my step and a tune to my laugh.Nobody asks about the colour of my eyes or why I won't smile. They ask instead of my childhood- whether I climbed trees and pulled pranks. I laugh in response, my love for the universe bursting out of every pore of my being- gratitude for the many gifts I have received that I haven't earned, the many opportunities that seemed gift wrapped with my name on the label. The world is perfect under the bandage I've plastered on and I feel the mile deep gashes in my soul begin the slow process of healing.

Just as I settle into my peace, a corner of my mind unlocks- I see an image of the inevitable future. A future I want with all my heart for you to have of happiness, success, joy and most of all, of peace. I see that future without me and that isn't what reminds me I will never heal, it is seeing somebody else in every dream we shared. And so I begin again, from the very bottom, tying again to forget, not hope, not believe and to stop praying to Gods who won't listen anyway.
---

I'm listening to Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd

To be ugly

When I was a child, I was a professional dancer. I don't think anybody who has seen my stiff response to music in the last few years would believe me but it's true. I was a professional jazz dancer, or something like that anyway.

I was part of a group called the <insert famous dancer whom I will not embarrass'name>'s Junior Dance Company. Stage shows, music videos and dancing with South India celebrities was part of my everyday as a 10-11 year old. We wore shiny sequinned clothes, spent endless hours every week perfecting choreography and even left school early every once in a while.

I guess I was living the dream. There was a purpose to my life, however trivial, before most people discovered there was even need for one. I didn't grow up with social media, I wonder if it even existed then, but there are pictures in a trunk somewhere of a group of 15 awkward adolescents, our faces full of make up posing with confidence that only comes from being a child.

It wasn't such a happy run though. In a world that demands perfection- manufactured or otherwise, it doesn't matter how young or innocent you are. I knew I was ugly before I even knew that was the word to describe me.
I loved dancing. Every bones in my body would thrill at the sound of music and I would dance because it was my natural reaction to music but when you're a professional dancer, that is not enough. The popular girls, the pretty ones would always get to dance in the center where they weren't tripping over cables or breathing in smoke from "smoke machines". Us uglie-s tuned out of the world, tuned into the music and filled space.

I didn't hate it. I don't remember ever realizing I was being slightest despite family and friends asking all the time why I wasn't dancing in front. Truth be told, I was glad to dance in the second row. I didn't have to remember any of the steps really.
But it was upsetting when people would walk into rehearsal asking to "audition" for something or the other and the instructors would only point to a few people. It isn't nice, knowing as a child, that you're ugly. That you- because you are too skinny, too dark, have weird hair and buck teeth, don't deserve every opportunity to shine.

I stopped dancing in the eighth standard. I can't remember if I missed it, I was too busy sailing to notice. I can't remember if I felt different for being seen for more than my scrawny adolescent body.

I wish I could still dance. I wish I could forget I'm ugly but more than anything I wish I could erase my ability to see people as ugly and pretty.    

Sadness

When my heart is cracked and bleeding, a rainbow forms in the sky. You look at it and smile not knowing the pain that painted the sky.
When I cry, big drops of rain quench the thirsty, baked red mud and little children run out from under tin shades to dance with smiles.

I will be happy again and the sun will shine again. It will happen but not soon.

My mother

I sometimes smell that particularly flowery smell of sunshine- I can be in a sweaty compartment of the train, in a restaurant, in the canteen- and I feel like I've been thrown into another world. Time stops, my body is independent of my mind and I can do nothing but let fragments of a memory that I can barely remember take over.

There is a strange comfort in things that don't change. At 24 there is very little that hasn't changed and yet when I smell that mix of sunshine, starch and flowers I'm transported to a warm cocoon. I feel four again. I watch as my beautiful mother wears make up and combs her hair, watch as she stands in the middle of what looks like reams and reams of beautiful silk. I feel the cool breeze of the air cooler and the magic in the air as the puddle of silk on the floor rapidly disappears. Amma was always impatient dressing up, she would click her heals and swear at safety pins. I hardly blame her, there is a bewildering ritual in wearing grown up clothes. The click of heals, the touch of rouge, the right shade of lipstick and the precise fold of every pleat.

I watch as she carefully combs her hair and snaps at me for getting in her way or bringing food into the room- I'm a clumsy child and in my jaw dropping wonder I can't seem to balance my plate. Sometimes, and these were prize days, I would be called on to to be part of the enchanting ceremony. I would sit on the floor and yank on pleats so that Amma could tuck them in just right. She would then spray on that perfume- it was never the same perfume, I could tell by the bottles being of different colours- and yet it would be that same ambrosial bliss.

When I was a child I dreamed of growing up, of dressing to Naval balls just like my mother did, of being as pretty, as perfect. It's amusing how childhood dreams turn out. I don't yearn so much for any of that anymore, we live lives that are of mutual pride and yet so cosmically different; but sometimes, on that rare special evening I'll walk into my mothers room and pretend to watch TV as I take in the unchanged present and revel in the permanence of that smell.

I have "borrowed" a tidy sum of perfumes from Amma in the hope that I can conjure that moment on demand but it's never the same without my mother, her boxes of make up and those magical reams of silk.  

Mrs. Pinto's house

Mrs. Pinto's house

Dear old Mrs. Pinto would sit in the garden of her ancient three storied bungalow and watch for hours as people passed by. Occasionally, she would ring the bell to summon her trusted man servant Lalji. She would sit endlessly on the rusty garden chair, that at some point of time was painted white as was the fad, and watch as a procession of vehicles pass her gate.

 She loved watching it- the magic of mobility. People of different shapes and sizes would make her beloved Mumbai come alive. Of course, what helped keep the love for this life outside was how, invariably, every one of these passers by in their many avatars would look at this bungalow, in the middle of a residential area full of multi storied buildings, and wonder how it had survived.

Mrs. Pinto loved to tell anybody, who bothered asking, how the bungalow came to be hers and why she could never sell it. How could anybody help listening to this frail old woman in her flowery cotton nightie tell her story? You could fall asleep over the tea and cucumber sandwiches she would serve you, but you woul wake up having listened to every word of her story.

“I was maybe fifteen when I married that Mr. Pinto. Of course, in my time, that was very late to be married. You see the problem was not with me; In those days I was so beautiful everybody wanted to marry me, but this Papa... You know everyone always said, “What a wonderful man this Mr. D’Souza is but oh he loves his daughter too much”. You know, he would bring me sweets everyday and he made sure mama braided my hair in the most beautiful satin ribbons. Oh, I wore only lace in those days. It was the thing to do. Not even all these things that you call lace these days, what I had was just beautiful, it was hand made, needle lace.

“Wait... But that’s not what I was telling you about. Ah yes! So my darling father, oh he just couldn’t let go of me. You see, I had three brothers and I was the youngest, the only girl, His own little moon papa called me No, my father couldn’t let go of me. He said that this is India, only. He said, “Anybody can come but this is India. Once a girl goes, she goes forever and never comes back, so how can I let go of my little moon.”

So Mama and Papa would fight everyday. Then one day, Papa didn’t buy me new lace when I tore my dress. Mama told Uncle Chacha’s wife, Auntie Chachi, to stitch it up for me. You see these big gardens? Uncle Chacha tended to them all alone. Oh it was so beautiful then. We grew apples and oranges and lemons and don’t even let me start about the flowers that we grew.

“Oh my old age I did it again. Where was I? Yes I was saying, so one day Papa agreed that my torn lace must be mended and if I lost my ribbons nobody should buy me any more. We didn’t eat apple pies anymore of drink orange juice anytime we wanted. Even Tommy, Lesley and Bob, my brothers who were studying in England, had to come back.  You see I was just a child then and I was happy to have my brothers back. Of course I missed my ribbons and my dresses and limitless supply of everything I wanted but you see, the way I saw it, it was a fair bargain- give up all the fancies to be treated like a queen by your three big brothers whom I loved dearly and missed desperately.

“But one day I heard mama and papa shouting at each other. I can’t say that wasn’t common but, you see, they were in the attic and I was in the garden and to hear them shouting so far away was quite uncommon. What was worse was Mama breaking all her China. So dear it, was to her. You know, it had these delicate blue flowers on them what is that word? Chintz? Something like that, anyway, it was the pride and joy of her life. No don’t misunderstand me, she loved all her children and the dogs and cats and cows we had, but nothing could make her smile quite like her beautiful crockery on her beautiful lace table cover. It had been a while since we had thrown a party to put all that on the table. You see we all ate from steel plates. Mother didn’t trust us with her plates. I mean, a bunch of hooligans like us, of course she would worry about us breaking and chipping everything, so the special plates were for special people.

“So you understand why I was worried when I heard them from where I was standing in the garden. The next thing I remember is Mama running onto the road in her tattered green gown. Why I remember that moment is because I had never seen my mother run out onto the road. I had never seen her run, which was shocking enough, but onto the road? That was something I hadn’t ever thought of as possible. Something about etiquette she would say. “Women shouldn’t run, women should comb their hair, women must keep their hands and nails neat.” You know, my mother was very pretty. Lots of people say I looked just like her and it made me glow. She had beautiful hair. Auntie Chachi would brush it for her every night; “hundred strokes”, she said “to have the hair of Rupunzel.” Sometimes she even let me comb it for her. Mama was always so delicate. The slightest knot and she would whimper. You see, she didn’t approve of screaming no? So to set an example she would never scream in my presence.

“Oh why don’t you tell me when I forget about the story? All you young people, such strange notions of what is proper. So anyway, I had never seen her go outside our gate so when I saw her run out like that I was quite shocked. I was tempted to follow her, it might have been quite a game, but then I remembered the noises upstairs and froze where I was. Then Papa ran out and said to me,

“That’s it! You must get married. I will miss you my dear girl”, then he gave me a tight hug and ran out too.

“I don’t remember too much of the rest of the day. I was quite excited you know. I had seen my cousins get married. I knew I would get new clothes and ribbons for that. After all, I was going to be a bride, you know.

“I don’t know how they found Mr. Pinto and how everything was fixed up. I think the first time I saw him was through the veil on my wedding dress. What a strapping man that Mr. Pinto was. Some twenty-three I was told he was. You know, he had this moustache and he certainly looked like a charmer in his wedding suit. I couldn’t wait to begin the rest of my life with that handsome man.

“I was told later that I had met him before, but you know it wasn’t till I turned 40 that my memory started improving so what to do, I didn’t remember seeing him at all. So, two days after the wedding I was whisked off to some tea garden in Assam where his whole family grew tea. It was a British thing to do but somehow they managed to get a hill for themselves.

“Then two months later I was taken home out of the blue. They said say, “Say goodbye, this is not yours anymore” and pointed at my beautiful house.

“Now, before I tell you the next part, you must remember that I was only fifteen and all this happened suddenly. You don’t take a fifteen year old girl, married or otherwise to her parents house thinking she is going to meet her family, anxious to tell them about all her wonderful new adventures and spring a foul surprise like that on her!

 My god! I must have embarrassed my mother that day because I was wailing like a little child, kicking and screaming. I mean I was a married woman, no? Married women are expected to be grown up however young (or old) they might be and I here I was clinging to that post, you see there, refusing to let go. Mr. Pinto went into a fit and said he would leave without me if I didn’t let go and behave like a grown up. I told him he could go, that I could live without everything but this house. I told him, between my sobs, this was my house and nothing could change that and that it would always be mine.

“Poor Mama and Papa, they just stood there watching helplessly while I was being dragged off the pillar by my new husband. I was like a beast hanging on to its prized catch. How that man pulled me. Oh, bless his soul and may he rest in peace, Mr. Pinto was such a gentleman. That was the only time he treated me like that. I probably deserved it too, but, you see, it was my garden and my pillar and house and my… Well I could do this forever. I just couldn’t part with any of it.

“Mr. Pinto had decided it would be a one month holiday where I could spend a long time saying goodbye to the house I grew up in. Clearly, he didn’t anticipate the tantrum I threw. So after all that travelling, I was only allowed to stay home from the time I walked in through the gates to the time I was roughly pulled off the pillar.

“That was the last I saw of my parents before they died together. You know, nobody told me what happened to them. No, not the part about their train being derailed during what was considered part of the freedom struggle but about what happened to them after the house was sold. My brothers also refused to tell me. Then they all died and it remained a mystery. I would still like to know but there is nobody left to ask.

“See I’ve take off again and you didn’t tell me. Where was I? Ah yes, so once Mr. Pinto yanked me off the pillar I was sent back to Assam where I made countless devious plans to get back my beloved house. You see, I was happy only in that tea garden, knowing that my house missed me but then to suddenly be told that I could never come back to the house just broke my heart. But then things were what they were and for 26 years I didn’t see my house. My husband and son kept me busy for all that time. Left to myself, I know I would have acted on one of those plans.

“Then one by one the whole Pinto family died. First, it was the parents then the son and I don’t know about the rest of the family but I didn’t wait to hear from them when Mr. Pinto died. You know I missed the family. They were so patient with me. Mr. Pinto’s mother was as nice to me as Mama and Mr. Pinto’s father doted on me. They never had any daughters, you see. There was genuine affection among us. Oh and Mr. Pinto, I still blush to think of all the things he taught me. Dear man, I still miss him.

“So once Mr. Pinto passed, I grieved my husband’s death for a month. It was too much really. Even after all that time I had not really grown up. I was always treated like a spoilt child, no. So when my whole family died I decided enough of this I will go back to the place that made me happiest.

I quickly packed my bags before the rest of the family turned up at the doorstep, found a lawyer and some other people and all and sold the bloody hill. I packed exactly what I needed and reached Bombay.

That’s when I really grew up. I tell you, a single woman in Bombay has much to learn. Especially one who decides to move into a temporary house and adamantly decides to have a particular house.

“After one year of battling with the world I finally got my beautiful house back. Of course I was cheated. Think about it no, who trades a hill for a three storied bungalow? But then again any seller could see that this crazy woman wasn’t counting the Rupees. I was on a mission to get my beloved house back and so I did. My poor son also, Jeff, stuck in London that time couldn’t do a thing. I was a grieving widow and orphan on a mission and no man in his right mind would choose to get in her way.

“Ah! So that is how I came to get my beautiful house back. I’m never letting it go. No. All those builders come and say some rubbish but who’ll give them this beauty to tear down into something that is lots of ugly boxes stacked one over the other? I’ve told that Jeff also that he is not getting the house. What will he do with it anyway in that London? So I’ve written to the Government, some heritage site something, some reporter was telling me. I told you no, anything to protect my house, so I wrote to some people. They’ll come sometime and help me. Hopefully I won’t die before that.

“Ah yes some endless families from everywhere came demanding a piece of my house. I told them off. You, dear child, see a frail woman, but if you threaten my house and my child you’ll see the other side of me. I’m at peace now. I have everything I want. If I die in this house I’ll be the happiest woman there ever was.”

The story never changed. Not the deviances, not the admonitions in the middle- nothing. Mrs. Pinto breathed her last in her beautiful house and the pack of wolves for builders clamoured to buy the house again but Mrs. Pinto had thought of everything before the end.

You can still see the house in the middle of what she called little boxes stacked on top of each other. It is a heritage site now, untouched by change, held in a time wrap. 

Televison

I was born in 1988 to a family in the Indian Navy. Colour TVs were just about making their way into Naval bases, cable networks still a long way off. Understandably, I remember little about the early years but my first lucid memory is of singing, “Washing powder Nirma, washing powder Nirma”.

My brother and I were ruled with military precision by my Drill Sergeant mother. Our lives were dictated by the clock. The routine is hard to forget after so many years. 


The truck would pick us up from school and drop us at home. We would spend an hour eating and then go out to play. 
The rule was to be home before 6 pm,when light fell and the street lamps were turned on. So focused would I be on my games of pretend, that I wouldn't notice the failing light until my brother, furious after looking for me for all of fifteen minutes, would find me to drag me home. We would then take a shower, pray and do our homework. Just as a meal ends with the very best part of it- desert, so would our day- we would all, my father, mother, bother and I sit down as a family to watch a few shows every night on Doordarshan.

For the summer we would travel to my grandfather’s house with Cable TV. My brother and I would sit glued to the TV all day long in awe of that Mecca of cartoons- Cartoon Network and yet, every evening we would watch a set of shows together as a family.Over the years the shows have changed from Buniyaad to The crystal Maze from the X-files to Steve Irwin, the crocodile hunter. 

The cracks appeared as gradually as (and accompanying) adolescence. I was beginning to get as tall as my mother and she seemed less scary when I didn't have to crane my neck to look at her. I always had an answer to her questions and never found the time to wait for her answers to my, often rhetoric, questions. My father started sailing, my brother left to study and I no longer wanted to watch the same TV shows as my mother.


With inhuman patience, one that neither my father nor brother shared, my mother waited for this phase to pass. I had to leave home before this patience was rewarded. By this time we had probably all forgotten where we started from. 


With the years and distance coming between us, while each of us finds a way to our own lives, family TV time is an ill afforded luxury. It takes the funny voice of one of my nephews or nieces singing a television jingle I'm humming for me to realize we still remain connected in sharing a love for the illusive reality of the entertainment world.

I might be appalled by a lot that is passed off as entertainment, news or advertising today but my opinion of the media will always be coloured by its ability to bring people together and influence an emotion and action.
---
My brother in his wisdom gained from an extra 4 and a half years on this planet read this when it was first written and announced that I had confused fact with wishful thinking. I am of the opinion that he is more right than he realises but isn't that the beauty of memory- to allow a person to colour just a little bit outside the lines for a truthful representation of a perceived fact.