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

Dear Pen

My dearest pen,

Courtesy of http://www.penherostore.com 

I miss you. I can't put words to how heavy my heart feels at the thought of replacing you and yet I must.

I loved you the minute I set eyes on you- my first true acquisition. I wonder if you could tell how scared I was about losing you as I had everything else dear. He said I had earned the right to have you, that nobody else he knew would take care of you as I would, that you and I deserved to be together from the first salary he ever drew.

Oh I loved you but I was so scared I would lose you. For a whole year you lay in my draw with jewelry and cameras, only used at home. You dried out so often I would wash you out after every use and search the internet every time for proof I wouldn't destroy you. I worried and worried and worried that I would ruin you- that you would be like all those perfumes Velliachan would bring back for Ammama from his travels across the world, stored away until they turned putrid. Oh but I loved you; I loved you so much that I couldn't resist your demand to see the world.

I remember the first day you came to work with me. We were writing lists, boring boring lists for a production house that I would later discovered, I loved. I remember being asked about my handwriting, you- you always gathered so much attention it almost took away from the work of art you are. Oh but how we flew- you me and stacks of magazines, the sheer joy of writing...
I also remember the first time I couldn't find you- the panic and tears, the prayers and amusement on the other end of the phone. You were you and so much more. I wonder if it is the same relief parents speak of, the feeling of my sins being washed away on your discovery the next morning, exactly as I had left you, on my desk the night before. We had our adventures didn't we... so many. We traveled, you found words for my tears and stoically refused to speak of our travels, so many letters bear your mark mistaken for mine.

Today somebody else said I had earned a pen. I was so happy, discussing the details in giddy excitement as only those who labor over a nib for a year and a half for the perfect angle will ever understand. We were discussing the weight of the nib and I could only think of you love. I couldn't replace you but now I must, I've earned it, she said. You will always be my favorite discovery but I hope you know I had to let you go. I couldn't bear the sight of you anymore if you weren't all of you. It wasn't you love, it was the world and that is the tragedy of it all, that mighty as you are, you weren't allowed to have your say.

I remember when I decided to let you go. I felt frozen until I washed your ink out in water just the right temperature and wiped you down one last time. I can't remember if I kissed you and held you tight, if I whispered my words of regret as I packed you away for the last time as my world shattered around me.

I hope you're happy. That you are treated with the love and respect you deserve. That he understands you need love and care, some adventure and some bravery. I hope you have ink and sunlight, paper and solemnity; I hope you don't miss me but know how much I miss you, how much I will always miss you.

You were my wings love, I look up into the blue for you- always, always.

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

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.

Magic bus

In a comforting world there would be a midnight bus; A bus for the broken, lonely and dispirited. The bus would have no destination it would invite neither conversation nor silence. Nobody would compete, not for the happiest nor saddest, nor bravest stories. We would drive around and around knowing we are united among strangers; That heart break and sadness are not lonely, inescapable little cages.

I would like to think that it would be a magic bus. An open top bust that will let you see the stars through your tears, magical because no matter where you are it will always feel 12 degrees Celsius  You could wear a sweater , hold yourself, maybe cry into your sleeve and believe what you will.

I would wear my hair down, find the darkest spot and wrap my oldest shawl around me. I'd snuggle into my shoes and cry as though it were raining. I'd carry some music, the kind of music I'm too scared to listen to on a regular day because of the truth in the writer's sadness. Maybe I'd whisper along. I would love my sadness on this magic bus, I would know it's a part of who I am. I wouldn't need to find excuses then and we would all drive round and around for hours until we stopped counting. I wouldn't carry a phone, or maybe the magic bus would jam all signals.

Airports are much like my magic bus. Everything is temporary- A collection of strangers who don't belong, so much left incomplete.

Conversations with myself

“Is it amusing to be unloved?” you ask, a sneer lighting up the depths of your soul. I look around me, I look around us; I feel the glory of the morning sun on my skin- I wonder at the beauty of the world and wonder what gave birth to the cruelty in your eyes. 

I’m tempted to ask what it feels like to be so vile but I guess the answer before I speak the words and walk away having lost my voice to the wonder that is your callous spite. I can hear you laugh your crooked laugh at the knife you twist in my soul and I catch on to the tune in you and can’t help but laugh too.

Is it amusing to be unloved you ask, I’m tempted to answer you. To tell you of all my thoughts and all my dreams to even speak aloud of your nightmares that my reality is. I’m tempted to tell you the person I see in you but I can’t rip your world apart as you do mine. I have neither the effortless guile nor the festering venom in me to rob you of your illusion.

I wish you well. I wish you glory. I don’t wish you the destiny you deserve but the one you dream of because I know that with your cruel beady eyes and crooked loud laugh you will never be strong enough to survive the world you make. 

The promise of today

The promise of today

She woke up that morning knowing it was going to be a beautiful day; determined that her day would be beautiful. Today would reflect the image of the rising sun she saw.

No not today, not today for the endless dreary depression of the dead being tossed in a heap with other unidentified bodies. Not today for children dying without seeing the life they were promised, and most certainly not today to watch bloated bodies with organs ripped off by the sea float to the shore.

Dr. Nita Shankar was on holiday for a week. She may be alone but that didn’t change the fact that she was on a holiday to forget the harrowing days she lived through. Dealing with the victims of Tsunami was most certainly not on her list of things to do today, in fact, never again would it be on her itinerary of the day.

Today she would get a massage or, maybe, read the book that had been lying in her bag for months now; She could finally go on a much needed shopping spree and eat in the new restaurant, not so new anymore of course, but new to her. She could splurge today. You’re a rich woman when you have done nothing but tend to the dead or dying for 3 months on a regular income that you didn’t have the time or heart to spend. Who could eat a sizzler after holding a child’s intestine in her hands?

The dead or dying... When would Nina learn to switch her brain off and stop thinking! It was just a job wasn’t it? To hell with that stupid oath she took. It was meant to be just a job. Tending to the sick is just a job! So what if they were dying? So what if they struck by a tragedy of unimaginable proportion? It was high time to stop. People did not land up on hospital stretchers to die, Not in Kasturi Bhai Private Hospital anyway, she decided with a violent mental shake up.

After this holiday she would be paid lots and lots of money to tend to people who, she decided, would live long. There would be medicines for everybody. There would be no fight with politicians over where the funds are going. People would live. One in thousands would die every year instead of one in thousands surviving everyday. Oh no, not in those swanky, disinfected Kasturi Bhai Private Hospital beds with their clean white sheets that smell of the sun and Dettol.

It was a new beginning and oh yes, the sun had set on those dying people who would cry. Who were they to cry anyway? They only had to see one person die, see one house washed away, one child die slowly of starvation while watching helplessly. No it was she who deserved the right to cry! She saw the endless lives wasted away. She saw how only the drunks and no goods were safe from harm. She saw the endless bottomless sea spit out disfigured bodies. She saw money for antiseptic and glucose being spent on a flashy BMW for the mayor. What did everybody else have to cry about?

Of course, who cared about the silly graduate from some medical school who decided to spend half a year tending to the hopeless dying? What was the purpose of her job anyway? Make the dying see truth? Help their family (if they found any that is) deal with the grief?

To hell with all that! Not ever again!  It was high time all the melodrama ended. She was looking at a new life now- one of great riches. The dying poor could do just that-die! If it wasn’t the Tsunami it would be poverty or something else, entirely, that killed them. Why waste her life on them? Something had to kill them anyway right? All better now, praise the Lord for natural calamities, they proved to be the fastest way to get rid of the nation’s parasites didn’t they!

Oh she would never have to deal with that in Kasturi Bhai Private Hospital. No siree, she would see people pay happily in Rupees and Dollars and Pounds. She would watch as people got better every single day. She would help and be helped and she would never ever have to perform three surgeries at the same time ever again. It was time for change and it was going to come soon.

Oh but dear Dr. Nita Shankar. When world she grow up and take off her rose tinted glasses? She never asked, so the interviewers never told that if a patient who suffered an accident was wheeled in she couldn’t touch him with a barge pole till the police came in. So what if he died?

What the people at Kasturi Bhai Private Hospital didn’t tell the silly, idealistic Dr. Nita Shankar MBBS, was that even the poverty stricken landed up in Kasturi Bhai Private Hospital. She forgot to ask, so didn’t tell her that if a poor woman walked in with her child who could be rescued she couldn’t a thing till the deposit was paid for. Oh no, the thalli that the weeping mother would violently yank off her neck simply wouldn’t do. She must, yes she must, with a grim face, tell the woman, watching her child die, to pawn her oh so precious thalli for her little munchkin and come back with the money because till then, well until then, Kasturi Bhai Private Hospital would not recognize the child as its patient.

Foolish,foolish Nita Shankar. What could she possibly know of the business health care is? At 25 straight out of medical school and Tsunami relief work Nina Shankar didn’t realize that every rising sun was followed by a setting sun and that the dark doesn’t get any prettier with money. 

Wishing on a black hole

There are some days you most force yourself to smile and learn to believe the lie you tell yourself. When you will dance and tell yourself a happy story while inside you feel as broken as a chewed rag doll;
On others days, like today, you do better taking a hammer to your heart, shattering yourself into a million, scattered, pieces that can never be joined again.
On days like today you cry yourself to sleep and wake up knowing nothing but a vast emptiness that will never be filled. A void so great, it will eat into what is left of the facade that is your life. You wish on a star for a numbness that will stop the pain.
You will tell yourself that the happy memories, so vivid, were never real. That it wasn't you walking on the clouds and singing with the birds; that it never happened, that every memory with a smile is only as true as fairy tales and make believe knights, from when you were young.
On some days, like today, you wish you were never happy and never found music and literature that reflected your happiness, had never known what it was like to feel happiness. You wish to erase, as neatly as words on paper, every shared secret, every shared laugh. You wish it never existed and that your only true friend, sorrow, was never left unattended, was seen with less scorn.

What is funny though, is that the more you wish it, the less likely it is that your wish will be fulfilled.

-------------
Song of the moment: Silence and Dante's quote  (I'm paraphrasing): There is no greater sorrow than remembering, in misery, when you were happy.