(Dis)Connecting Whispers.....

My youngest son, who is in sixth grade, today professed that he is the odd one out in his class. The grounds? He is the lone one who doesn’t own a cell phone. Likewise, my elder one also stands out, not because he is the only one in class who plays classical violin or who can play the drums.. but because he doesn’t have a laptop. His cell problem had been solved as a birthday gift.

I didn’t have a cell or a laptop ten years ago. But then my memory was sharper, and I had Time. If ever I needed to call anyone, I could go to any phone, and get the number straight from my head. All the numbers, birthdays, anniversaries, and appointments were stored neatly inside my brain. It never got suspended, or the screen never froze. I used to call friends to clear doubts, and visited libraries frequently. I had piles of notes filed neatly. Carbon copies given by friends were a luxury. I used to write pages and pages with a real pen.

When I was in school, using a calculator in maths class was cheating, and you were a queen if you owned one. It was a prescribed medicine to repeat the multiplication tables daily. But now, every device, be it watch, phone, computer (even notebooks and files)… has a calculator tucked in somewhere. No need to think, no need to count on your fingers.. just type the numbers..

I can clearly recall the hours I had spent in the card shops, hunting for the greeting cards for dears and nears. The perfect words to match the perfect picture for the right person was very important. Birthdays, Christmas, New year.. the celebrations became exciting with cards. I used to wait eagerly for that soon-going-to-be-extinct creature called Postman.. Each card and letters you got had a personal touch knitted with love.

With all our modern connectivity, I feel more and more detached from the outer world. I get a wind about my friends through their scraps, without having to talk to them directly. Long descriptive letters written painstakingly to the loved ones became short sms, which one has to think twice to get the real meaning with those short forms. I hate short forms. So it takes me forever to type on that small keypad.

Is communication becoming an afterthought? Something we do when we don’t have anything else to do? Or something that we do together with something else? Talking with your parents while watching television, chatting with eight or ten people at the same time, there’s always some or other kind of distraction.. You never give your full attention to one. The ability just to communicate with someone alone is slowly getting lost.

When was the last time you wrote a long hand written letter? When was the last time you had gone to a shop and bought a greeting card? When was the last time you added or multiplied a four digit number without using a calculator? When was the last time you dialled a phone number without looking at the contact list?

There are times when I wished I could turn the clock back… but then panic grips me. How would I ever able to contact anyone? How would I love the meaning of words? How would I check the movie timings? How would I shop online? How would I clear my doubts? How would I get some recipes and tips? How would I read the newspapers and magazines? How would I know what is happening around me? How would………I survive????????

Random Whispers.......

It’s such a long long time… My ink went on strike. Words flew afar. Thoughts crashed. Mind became standstill. I was worn out… the aftermath of a hard labour. I know not from where to start.. what to write… After the new birth, how can I be my old self?

There were some realisations… and some confusions… I had lost something… but gained another. Which one should I accept? I had loved .. not once, but twice… Shall I go after my love.. or shall I accept the love which came to me? I am happy in the knowledge that I am loved and wanted. No, I am not going to talk again about love.

Today I feel very contented. I had a long walk alone in the rain… and came back saturated. I shrugged off the raindrops and the hurt from my coat. The yellow flowers had bloomed and had fenced the roads. The mere picture of yellow flowers peeping at me makes me happy. It is impossible not to have a smile when you see those yellow flowers dancing in the wind, swaying their heads.. Yellow is the colour of sunshine, the colour of life.. It makes me feel cheerful and bold.

Some things I miss a lot in my life.. The sound of the train, the song of an unseen bird, the flapping of wings, the gust of water from the nearby tap, the tinkling of bells, the cacophony of nature, the creaking bamboos, the swish of an animal’s tail, the song from the temples… These were the morning alarms in my childhood.

For a long time, I had wanted to taste some pure fresh toddy straight from the tree. I had expressed this wish to my husband and cousins, but all were diplomatic in saying, “Of course you can’t!” I got a chance when we went on holidays. While we were roaming near a coconut grove, a friend’s father brought some fresh toddy in an earthen pot, with some seafood. To my untrained palate, it smelled repulsive at first. The fish was too hot. Tears flowed profusely, sweat trickled down my body, but there was no stopping me from sipping and munching. The toddy was sweet. Sweeter was the feelings which followed. I became weightless, and began to float in the air. All I had to do was to spread my hands.. and lo.. there I go… floating, flowing… The world around me was so beautiful… The people looked pretty. The water in the river was so inviting… I wanted to giggle all the time. I was amused when others tapped me on my shoulders and asked me to behave myself. What was wrong in giggling and laughing and floating when life is so beautiful? My intoxication came from inside me. I think toddy has an uncanny way of settling inside the stomach and fermenting there to form a potion that entices and seduces you.

I feel so happy to knock off my to-do-before-I-die list one by one. And I can’t wait for the next one……..

Wishing Whispers.....

Here I bare my heart… unburdening it all... a heart bursting with love for you. The love that went unobserved even though our eyes had locked over and over… The love you didn’t spot trembling in my lips, eager to come out. But then, how will you ever know? I had never voiced anything. I wanted nothing more than to saunter through the same path you had trodden years ago before me. I knew that I was blindly tagging along your footsteps. I craved to turn into your shadow. All the time, I remained behind the curtains…unobtrusively... I used to steal glances at you from my numerous hidden corners. Every time I looked at you, a veil was always ready in my hands to cover my face and heart.

I had always thought about the women in your life. I used to observe them closely, wondering what is it that made you choose them over me… I used to wonder if I will ever get a corner in your heart.

Summers passed quietly.. followed by winters. Flowers blossomed. We both changed, and went in our own ways. Still, my heartbeat synchronized with yours. Thoughts of you were always prominent in my mind. The leaves of memory always made noises. My pen flowed for you. Muses bestowed me with words.

How could I not love you? It had come to me unawares in my childhood, grew with me through adolescence, and ripened with age. One day, when you hear the soft rustle of leaves behind you, when you feel a silent footstep following you, you might look back… But I won’t be there. I will be waiting, hiding behind the trees, waiting for you to pass so that I can follow you.

Sometimes, love is like this, my dear. Unheard, unseen, it just follows you without entering your heart. It follows you, through life, through death, in the next birth, in a never ending wait…….

Blocking Whispers........

I get these blocks sometimes. From time to time it is writer’s block. Now and then it is speaker’s block. At times it is thinker’s block. Occasionally it is reader’s block.

Often I am stumped with something I wish to write. It is not that words don’t come to me. It is not that the muse never drops in on me. She does. The words too.. They come uninviting, looking coyly at me, footing themself at an arm’s reach… I can see them. But powerless to feel and fondle. They are a bit timid to come near me. Like the cup of coffee that is still to reach the lips… Like the book that is yet to finish… Like an unfinished conversation... Like an incomplete mating…. The pangs of labor becomes agonising. But…

There are times when words fail to come to my mind. I stumble for the exact word I want to utter. I think and think till fumes come out of my ears. I am inept to express myself. My mind isn’t blank, just too dense with thoughts that need untangling. If I ponder hard for the exact word I want to say, the person with whom I am talking to wont be able to resist and will jump in. If I don’t think and use the first word that comes at that instant, it often ends up in a humourous situation. I just ramble and babble. These days if I take my pen, I am able to write clear, concise, precise razor-sharp sentences. And the sentences come to me with lightning speed, which reminds me how my brain can fire.

Then there are those occasions when I falter for something to think. Ideas just elude me. My mind will be blank. Or too many thoughts at the same time, but none that I can recollect. I think of a million things at the same time, and yet think about nothing at all. The flashes of ideas that comes to me for a millisecond vanishes with supersonic speed. Then my mind re-writes. The original becomes ordinary. The wit gets tarnished. My mind wonders aimlessly. I wonder what I wondered! I wonder why I wonder thus!

Now and then, I get sick of the printed world, and go on strike. I can’t get into any books, can’t concentrate on the contents. I had suffered the same thing during my post graduation, so many books I HAD to read, that I didn’t want to read any of them at all. I had the courage to appear for Viva Voce reading just ‘Wuthering Heights’. Forced reading books are as bad as forced feeding food. One has to let the appetite arise naturally. I used to go into reading overdose that I wouldn't have stopped if I didn't have to. Late at night, all I want to do is surf on the net or chat with friends. And that block is one I am sure I will never get- Internet block.

Of late, a new block is also on the roads- Blogger’s block. I refuse to visit my blog, and when the people dear to me ticks me off for not writing anything, I try to make them see that I am going through the Blogger’s block period. Like a woman undergoes her menopause.

Thank God there is nothing like an electrician’s block, technician’s block, plumber’s block, a supermarket block, restaurant block… But there can surely be a kitchen block, cleaning block, wife's block......................................................

Dreaming Whispers....

I am in love… deep and hard... with the mountains…

The Himalayas beckons me. Himalayas - Where the earth meets the sky! It has become a passion for me. Ever since I have read a few books on it, I always dream of going deeper in the Himalayas… I feel the mountain hides many secrets. I want to walk through the untrodden trails, filling my lungs with crisp fresh air, and listen to the music of the snow. I want to lie down in their folds, explore its deeper and higher reaches, and wander all through the mystifying valleys and peaks… I like the idea of shivering to keep myself warm. I am hooked. It summons me to rest in its lap. I feel the Himalayas everyday. I dream of setting my foot on the King of the mountains, and then go to Kailas, and come back. I dream of residing in a place where I can go there whenever I want to.

I gave a suggestion to my family- to take an apartment somewhere in the Himalayan valley. They, in turn, gave me another suggestion. They will settle in Delhi, and I can visit them whenever I feel like!!! All three were in unison shouting at me not to involve them in my madness.

Another place where I want to spend a day is Kudajadri. But here, only one day… Not a lifetime like in The Himalayas. While Himalayas is more spiritual, Kudajadri is, to me, romantic. The beautiful surroundings, the pouring rain, lush green forests, windswept hills, the enchanting Sowparnika…

To go to both these places, I need a strong hand with me… The hand that leads me to knowledge… the hand that teaches me about life… the hand that shows me how to love… the hand that catches me when I stumble…

I know that the mountains are not what they seem from a distance. They seem to me impossibly far away… still I know it can be approached. So far I have seen it only as a painting… the master stroke of the creator.

There is a saying, "when you fall in love with mountains, they keep calling you again and again". How true! My heart is filled with the call of the mountains… I am dying to reach my destination… A destination which will always be my passion, my pain and my pleasure...!!!

Celling Whispers....

I have a confession to make. I carry a murder weapon on my person every day and night, and I go to bed with it next to me within easy reach. I rely on it for my work, my leisure and my pleasure. And I won’t part with it under any circumstances. I think I am going to become a Nomo phobic… Yes… I can’t imagine a situation when I don’t have my mobile with me!!!

Curiously I don't actually make that many mobile phone calls; it is the comfort of having the phone that I like. I get suffocated in a place where I don’t get my mobile range. I would be wondering who might be trying to reach me or message me, even though only a very few dear ones call me on my cell. The very sight of it brings me the memories of my loved ones. The mere contact with it fills me with the warmth of their touch. If handsets were alive, mine would have many stories to tell… The eagerly awaited calls, the kisses exchanged, the naughty loving messages, the love given and taken, the silent embraces, eased tears…

Living without the cell phone is like living in an isolated desert. All the communication with the outer world lies inside that small thing. The only numbers which I know by-heart is my mom’s and hubby’s. My cell is my walkman… it is my camera… it is my alarm clock… it is my personal reminder… it is my album. In fact, it is my life... It is what connects me to my dreams. The old adage, Books are a man’s best friend should be changed to cell phones are now a man’s best friend. It is a need, it is a want, it is something that you never forget to take with you where ever you go.

Again I say, I don’t use cell phone much… But only now, once more, to message someone that I am posting a new one in my blog………….

Loving Whispers.........

I am back from my retreat now… Back from my home. Back to the dry-looking vast desert (as vast as my dreams!)… back to my once mind-numbing chores... back to the daily routine. Coming back after an escape in India is a very big deal for me. I am one of those many who can never look forward to coming back after holidays. It is not that I don’t enjoy spending my private life with my husband and kids. I do. A lot. It is just that when it is over, I am not yet ready to get back to the humdrums.

This time, I am back from the holidays feeling I need a holiday. Usually I am fully recharged by the time I am back. But this time, life has been too hectic. Mind was never still.

The holidays have been a mixture of gains and losses… of do’s and dares. I did something which I had not dared to do for around 25 years of my life. I dared to open the Pandora’s Box which had been tightly sealed for more than two score years of my life. Out jumped greedily the emotions and feelings which would’ve surely made even the most patient one hit the roof. I had controlled my emotions for too long that suddenly, when a small fissure cropped up, they sprang and jumped out too quickly.

I had kind of led a reclusive life… kind of aloof, in my own world of unresolved thoughts and memories. I had had a kind of melancholic disposition, with people around who cared for me, and whom I cared for. But then there was none to be called as a soul mate. There was no thinking alike kind of relationship… just a very functional, mutually beneficial kind of sharing. I used to languish in my own world, stuck to the past. But now everything has changed. I saw the light at the end of the tunnel. To give me another chance. Well, heard… rather than saw. Was too eager to see that light, to feel it, and to cuddle in its warmth. But that remains a dream. The tomorrow never came… Still the light lingered. And lightened even the darkest corner of my life. The black became white. It erased the depressing shadows surrounding me. Tears (though unshed) became smiles. I got away from all the negativity. The light was no more hidden by any screen. The curtain was parted to let in love. Nothing was any more behind the veils.

Now I am out from behind the curtains. I think about the way things might have been if I had come out much earlier. But no regrets. At least now than never. I never believed I would get this far. I can handle it. I am in control of my life now. I’ve been shaken out of my ignorance. The time has come for me to choose. I have been pushed back from the edge of self destruction. The one who has been showing light has extended his strong arms…. And has taken my hands, and set my feet upon the long path of self discovery.

Bleeding Whispers...

No one to walk along with her,

And soothe the fears that plague her…

How can you remove the tag of love from a relationship? Is it possible to stop loving a person to whom you have surrendered your heart? After knowing the joy of love, can you bear the heartache of knowing that you were nothing for the other person? That the other person had never loved you? You meet someone, love him more than anyone else, you have intimate relation with him, and then one fine day you come to know that you didn’t have any place in his heart..

Why do you still decide to stay with someone who doesn’t love you back?

As the clock ticks.. as the sun fades.. you think of a trillion ways to forget that someone… but the more you try, the more his image replays its sound and laughter.. Every day, every minute, every second, his shadows cloak around you… It was you who had chosen him. So you will hang in there till your last breath, hoping that things will get better. You know that he is everything to you, the unrequited dream, the song that no one sings, the unattainable….


Being in love with somebody who doesn’t love you is a heart breaking experience. Accepting the fact that he doesn’t feel the same way about you can shatter you. You know that he likes you. He cares for you… but not love.

Love always has been and always will be a mystery. Be glad that it came to live for a moment in your life.

Cluttering Whispers

I landed at Nedumbassery airport in Great Expectations! I was hoping for my virile rain to be there with stretched arms to embrace me in his strong clasp. All through the drive back home, I was eagerly looking out for his arrival. But then there was no sign that he was going to come and visit me that day. Maybe tomorrow, I consoled myself. Maybe tomorrow, when I go to visit my Vadakkunnathan, he will take me with him. But then.. a woman’s life is always underlined in red ink. Woman proposes, HE disposes.

As I had nothing to do, I was just rummaging through my old things… One of the things about coming back home is that it takes you in close proximity to childhood memories and mementoes. As I was delving deeper and deeper in my cupboard, I dug up several things from my high school and college days. Gripped by a nostalgic kick, I went through them.

For someone who was thought of to be a quiet and lazy bookworm, I realised that I did a lot of writing as I leafed through my old diaries and files of papers. Of course there were craps too. Lots and lots of it. Bad poetry, poor jokes, a thickly veiled autobiographical attempt, copied quotes from books… There was an exam paper where I had attempted just one essay, and got out from the examination hall. There was my composition book, where we were supposed to write small essays on given topics. One incident that still lingers in my mind from high school times was a short essay where the students were asked to write about their favourite hero and their favourite movie. Out of 98, more than 90 (nothing to reduce) were busy with their hero Gandhi and the movie Gandhi. (There was one or two with Nehru (a hero!!!!) and Ashoka. There was not even one Subhash Chandra Bose.. neither was there any Napoleon or Hitler) I still cannot comprehend how everyone of those 13 year olds like Gandhi so much, and how they didn’t have any other favourite movie. I had also seen Gandhi, but hadn’t understood a single dialogue which was too heavily accented for me at that time. How come I was the only different one? Was I weird? Was I dumb? I had written about my Hero, Amitabh Bachchan, who was then seriously injured during a shoot. (I still remember my sentence which I had written in quotes, “Oh God! Please save our Amitabh!”) I had written about a funny movie I had seen the previous day, ‘Poochakkoru Mookkuthy’ which I had enjoyed tremendously. I had penned it pretty well. But the teacher (a nun) rolled out her eyes, and read it aloud in the class, and I was laughed out. But it was never a problem for me. I liked it, I enjoyed it. And I knew it was good.

I looked carefully at each and every item I fished out. I had these things with me from a sense of nostalgia or a sense of connection. There was an old photo album with those almost-forgotten photos. There was a tightly folded paper, which when unfolded blossomed into a beautiful picture sketched by me. There were some saved letters from my dad and friends, which revealed some interesting snippets of life, some Christmas cards, an old broken walkman, some peacock feathers waiting to see the sunlight, chocolate wraps, dried flowers, ear-rings, bangles, comics, an old purse which still has some coins… I used to give some coins to my mom and ask her to exchange it for notes. I knew where she kept the coins. The next day, I used to take the same coins and again exchange it. I could double my money in 24 hours with no effort.

I couldn’t believe some of the stuffs I was allowed to get away with! Even though I have shut the doors of yesterday tightly closed, the windows were partly opened. It was like hunting your past… rummaging through your mind…! I dragged out the entire contents (minus the sorrows and regrets), folded, piled and replaced every item so that the windows should be fastened tightly.

Promising Whispers..

I am all set to relax my aching bones. Two months of fun and fervour. My mom has been looking forward to see her grandchildren for more than a month now. And of course, she is zealously waiting for my arrival too. But now I am thinking of giving her an ultimatum… Every time my feet touch my home ground, the first thing she will comment is about my shape. “Oh, she has become fatter!” she would exclaim, even though I’d had been standing on my head for a couple of months and had shed a few kilos! “She needs to go on a diet”, she would then announce. That means no Sapphire biriyani, and no beef fry from Jos Hotel. I really don’t understand what goes on in peoples’ minds. Why is it considered acceptable to comment on others’ weights? I have been subjected to this, starting from when I was younger. Last week, a family friend, having a nice look at my waist (I strongly believe he was ogling ;) ) commented that I should eat more. Strings of yummy mixed noodles were hanging out from my mouth at that time, and so, I couldn’t retort with a witty comeback... but I could see the look in my husband’s face. I wanted to take a swing..!

Jos Hotel… that is where you get the best beef fry in Thrissur. And Sapphire is where you get mouth watering delicious Kozhikodan Biriyani. One should never miss both while you are in Thrissur. A movie in Ragam, (now the name is changed to some chettan’s Ragam. Somehow the sound is not just right. It is like my pencil, your pencil… like you are going to someone else’s house to watch a movie. Should have changed it to Thrissurians’ Ragam. He should have thought something from outside the box. Imagine asking your friend to come for a cinema at XYZ’s theatre…) biriyani from Saphire, and a light stroll through Thekkinkad... You will be refreshed… and revived too. A rendezvous with Vadakkunnathan early in the morning recharges your battery.

Has anyone had a drive in the Thrissur-Guruvayoor road at 20km speed? We have enjoyed that too. Amidst the busy traffic, with the never ending lines of buses, lorries and other vehicles, imagine you driving slowly at 20km speed.. The irate horn of the other motorists would excite you more, making you slash the speed further down. I swear, it is fun.. Just have a try!

I can see my husband sending daggers in my direction. I have been typing and erasing in this blog for a long time now. I know he’d be thinking that I am chatting with someone, so fast and furiously… fingers are flying over the keys in supersonic speed. Piles of clothes lie before me waiting to have their place in the suitcases which are still unopened. And I have an afternoon flight to catch… Have promises to keep before I sleep too……

Tearing Whispers..

There is one thing that I could never do… cry to my heart’s content. I hide my emotions from my close friends and family. I’ve got so used to holding up my feelings that I forgot how to cry. I try and try… but can never cry. I smile outwards, when really inside, my heart will be breaking.


Tears have always refused to leak out from me. They are always well-settled, sealed behind my eyes. Many a times I have craved for an outpour… for the tears to tumble…to sob like a baby. I want to weep out the tons of emotions, anger and tensions inside me. The knot in the throat tightens and suffocates me. But I couldn’t. If they had fallen, it would have been easy to wipe it out. But how can you wipe the tears that were locked behind your eyes? How can you ever erase that blemish? My pillows were and are never soaked. Even when I wanted to cry my heart out, I used to laugh. When I am frustrated, when I am sad.. I smile. Well, the mess is less. Even without the tears washing my eyes, I am able to look at life with a clear view. There were times when the tide of life had turned against me. The boat had been turned upside down. I had waited for my tears to flow from the depth of my helpless despair. They rise up from my heart, gather together behind my closed eyes… but are adamant to come out. They prefer to stay behind closed doors. The pressure is too much. What can I do to release the safety valve?

Is that why my soul becomes dry so fast? Tearless griefs are bleeding inwardly. There are times when I just want to cry my heart out. I knew the tears were there.. brimming, sloshing behind my eyes, like a glass full of water.. but never spilling. Will it ever??????

Swinging Whispers....

I had gone for a short trip back home… just me and my dreams. It was like bygone days. Alone, carefree, without any strings appended… A week away from the reproaches and peevishness. Just one week... I was back before my folks realised they could live without me. A realisation that should never cross the threshold of your foyer.

I had the whole 24 hours per diem just for myself. It had been eons since I had this privilege. I could unwind in silence, I could lose myself in my fantasies... I miss my swing cot. It was on this cot I used to lie down and muse over the big and bigger things in life… muse on the days that are to be… It was on this cot that I waited for the smooching raindrops. A five year old used to lie down on it, shoving the wall with her small legs, making the cot swing, listening to her dad’s stories which took her to a fairyland, slowly drifting away to sleep. It was only for her and her dad. They both used to make her mother sleep in the other cot. But when she woke up, her dad was always sleeping with her mother. “That cot likes only you, darling”, he used to say. “It said only you can lie there”, he would say, putting up a sad expression on his face. And I believed him. And thus the passion began… I believed that it was solely meant for me. None in my house liked it either. So it was mine. Mine and mine alone.. Now did you hear a tinge of possessiveness? Someone who is very special to me always says I am one. But I had never thought in that sense. When you truly love something or someone, how can you confine it or him to a cage? Why should you keep a beautiful butterfly in your fist against its will?

Coming back to my swing cot, it was hung in the corner of the room, having windows on both sides. So I could feast my eyes on the east and north. Swinging to and fro, I used to wait for the trains to pass and envy the travellers. People stuck in traffic when the railway gates are closed used to look up to my window and get the fright of their life when they see a shadow flowing up and down… Especially on the night of Thrissur Pooram, when me and my friend.. both clad in white nightgowns, flaunting our long tresses, slithering from one window to the other… the apparition-effect was tremendous. The shrill from those supposedly valiant heroes are still fresh in mind.

It was on this cot that I used to do my combined studies along with my friend.. she was doing her MBBS and I was doing my graduation in Literature. But we studied together. One will sit near the northern window and one near the east. Even now everyone wonders what we studied together. But we really did. This olden witnessed many a things.. secrets exchanged, friendships concreted, problems solved, decisions made.. it was a silent witness to every important moments in my life. Our laughter and tears were always in concurrence. It quivered in ecstasy and showered me with promises of life when I was deflowered.

But now, my folks don’t want it to be there. And it lies down in the terrace, exposed to the natural wrath…threatening to end its decades old vigil.. A solitary creature abandoned by all. When I am there, I dust it, pat it, and lie on it.. It is like a homecoming.. pining to be clasped in the protective hands of my god father. How I wish I could get it back inside the room. But I have to live in ‘today’. Yesterday never was... Tomorrow might never come.

R(a/e)ining Whispers...

I've now started to become someone who spends more time writing what I would like to do rather than what I actually say and do. There are times when I think I’m more matured than my age, but there are times when I just glide in my reveries.

I was always hemmed in by silence, and caroused in it. For me, silence was and is, never deafening. With the silence emanated voluminous thoughts.

I always had a penchant for Rains. Oh how virile it was! The droplets, ever so small, still able to wash away all the pains from the heart… cool enough to quench the hot fire of our souls..

I was committed to it from a very young age. One and all who knew me always teased about my addiction to it! They knew that when I make a commitment, I stick to it like glue. When I was a child, it would sneak in through the windows, would kiss my nose tips which would be protruding out through the panes. Sometimes I stick my tongue out and savour it. In my adolescence, it used to come impromptu, clasp me from behind, saturating, oblivious of the inquisitive onlookers. There were never any constraints. When it came, I used to go out with it, hand in hand. I’ve always welcomed it with a deep yearning. Sometimes it came with such a fury and hunger and took me in one single sweep. It fell on me rhythmically, each in anticipation of the next, creating a beautiful symphony.

Every now and then rains kiss me at nights while the world is in slumber. It would venture out from its hidey-hole, hisses through the open windows and wakes me up. It embraces me with its robust arms, enveloping me with soft sweet kisses. It was like a kiss on a dry parched piece of earth. It whispers sweetly in my ears as it trickles down… melting against my skin. I would close my eyes and relish the drops... as it strips me… feels me… deflowers me… And then, the distant rumblings! I dare not open my eyes, or else the dream might shatter… that I was alone with my memories.

Does rain have any smell? Does it smell of a man's aftershave? A cologne? A cigarette?

Do I love anything more than a long walk in the rain?

Ageing Whispers....

I am an offspring of the seventies. A couple of years, and I will be embarking on the naughty forties! No, I am not lamenting. Actually I am excited. Can't wait to get naughty. Chronologically I am 30+(a big plus). Somebody told me I'll be middle-aged soon. Personally I think I have just lived a quarter of my life. So still time to cross that threshold. I live my life vicariously. I look 40 something, act 30 something, and live like 20 something. It is all in the mind. If you feel you are old, you ARE old.. If not, you are not.

Two score years ago, 50s were considered as well past middle age, and 60s getting really old. And 70s... oh my!! They were the oldest.. But now, 60 is the step stone to middle age.. till then you are young! 60 to 80 middleaged, and afer 80, you slowly start to get old.. I feel old age is always 25 years away from you.

Last month, I had a lunch with my professor. I was concentrating on the juicy beef when suddenly she exclaimed "I can't believe you people came out from the college 15 years ago". Oh man! That was an instant fill to my empty howling tummy. 15 years? I had thought that it was only 4 or 5 years since we left university. Now, that made me feel a bit.. a wee bit.. a teeny weeny bit.. old. It's really funny. When I was a teenager, I had really felt more matured. But after 30, I keep forgetting that I've left my twenties behind. Filling 0ut forms is always a little tricky. I have a hard time remembering and calculating how old I am! They should actually put two columns there... mental age and chronological. I bet no one would want to fill the chronological column.

Why should these numbers decide how we feel? It should be like Mark Twain said: "Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter."

A heart that loves is always young!!!

What's in a name, after all?

His parents mustered on one side. My folks marshalled on the other. The debate was getting hotter. The topic? Well.. What to name my firstborn!!

Hey comeon! It's my son, after all. And I wanted to name him Nikhanj, since at that time Kapil Dev was the epitome of my handsomeness. (I swear, there IS such a word!) But none could utter the name by the book, and it had to be gulped back as soon as it sprang out of my mouth. Then I implied on Rhett. It is single syllabled, uncomplicated.. I am a hardcore fan of Gone With The Wind. All I got was some glaring and sneering stares. I had another choices too, like Rochester or Darcy or even Chicken George. But I didnt dare to voice it. They were looking at me as if I'm bizarre!

The clock was running in marathon pace, and the visitants were flowing in. Still we were not able to get any near to a decision. The name should start with "M".. proposed his folks. Most of their names were starting with "M". But then ALL our names were starting with "S". So it should start with "S", advocated mine. His and Mine were making Ours strenuous. One squad's proposal were opposed by the other.

The time had come. The lamp was lit. Now no more musings. I had to come up with some name.. I was in a Catch-22 situation. "What about Rahul", a cousin, eyeing my dilemma, hinted. My mom, being a Rajiv Gandhi fan, and my father-in-law, being a pakka congressman, didn't have to think twice. We were all given the same choice.. YES or YES??

Thus the name Rahul was bestowed upon the little one. Little did we realise that this name is going to be the most popular in Bollywood. Every month one or two movies are released with Rahul as the hero. Now when our hero asks us why such a generic name was given to him, I just sigh.. How refined my Nikhanj would have been.... Nevertheless I attain solace in the bard's lines.. What's there in a name!! But.... It IS elementary, my dear......!!!!!

(A)waiting Whispers...

Here I am, sitting with a dab of henna on my hair to colour my blacks, (I won't say to cover my greys.. or should I say to pepper my salts?), shelving my tumbling thoughts, tossing away the unwanted, nurturing the sweet ones, and staring at the blank screen of my laptop, waiting... My darling hubby hates henna. He says it is akin to using cowdung.. When I go near him, he twitches his face as if he is smelling the dung!
This blog is becoming an addiction.. oh not to me, but to my friends and relatives and other altruistics.. they think they can sneak inside me, and know all my hidden secrets. Who would ever think that people might actually be interested in what time you get up, what you eat, what you drink and what you dream! So they think that I am an easy-peasy ? Ahh na naaa.. I am the same old self... a heart brimming with secrets, never letting any cats out.. But they tell me they are waiting.. Waiting for new revelations.. It has been quite a while since I've posted anything..

Speaking about waiting, now I am waiting for that magic name to appear on my screen. This waiting is a real torture. We start to wait from the day we are knitted in our mother's womb.. to come out to this world, to walk, to talk.. We wait to grow up. We wait for recognition. We fill our days with those little moments of waiting... We cannot remove it from our lives. Once, long before, I told my.. ah well, someone, who was planning a loooong trip, that I'll wait for him as long as he wants. "For what, dear?", he asked. I didnt reply. I could have told him.. "For you". But then I knew very well that was like chasing a rainbow. Not the waiting, but the fusion.(It is still a con-fusion). Life drifts by.. still I hold on and wait..

When I was a child, I used to wait for trains. Lying down on my swing cot, face pressed against the windows, enjoying the soft kisses of little raindrops, I used to pin my eyes and ears whole day to see them hasting off whistling sweet lullabies for me... I used to wait for a hug that never showed up on my doorstep. I used to pine for a hug from my parents. I dream of being hugged when I toss and turn during sleepless nights. A real hug came my way from a Russian dentist, and then from a close virtual friend when we met.. but the pity is both were women! Still have to find out how a hug from a man will be.. My hubby adheres to my parents footsteps, and so ensures that he doesn't do any faux pas.

And my waiting continues. I am waiting for a rebirth of wonder. I am waiting for the magic fairy to touch me with her wand. I am waiting for those sweet nothings which I crave for. I am waiting for the Midas touch in my garden......!!!

Secret Whispers...

We all have secrets which we hope will go down the drain with time. But they are always there, hiding in some corner.. In childhood they are innocent, tucked away in the imagination like a favourite toy hidden from a sibling under the bed. In adolescence, it is a soft feather, carressing you warmly, hugging you, and lurking as a smile around the corner of your lips. Then, when the mind grows, somewhere in its labyrinthine hollow, your secrets become your prisoners. You keep it behind closed doors, and seal it tight. If, somewhere along the way you slip, and let your guard down for a moment, someone innocently might crawl inside through those closed doors... and a new secret is created!

One of my best friends had a big problem when we were very small. She got very less marks in Social Studies. When we got the report card, her eyes welled up with tears. Her already round eyes became rounder, like a fried papad....
Two seven year old heads glued together, ideas rushed back and forth, but couldn't crack the case of escaping her father's wrath. Dejected, she was on her way back home, when , only a sandwich away, she saw the way out. There, on the entrance of her house, was her dad's name in block letters! She took out her report card, and her pencil, (pens were not allowed in Lower Primary) and clearly wrote down her dad's name along the dotted lines... IN BIG BLOCK LETTERS! (Well, she was clever enough to know that signature means writing your name..) Next day, with a beaming grin of triumph, she handed back her report card to the teacher, who took it without a blink. But mysteriously, her dad materialised after an hour, and he and the teacher were having some secret whispers.... I looked at my friend's face which was as white as her uniform shirt. A moment later her dad hoisted himself right before her eyes, and father and daughter exchanged a long glance. Her lips began to tremble, and two little pearls were waiting to leap out from her eyes. He scooped her up in his big arms, and giving a peck on her cheeks, exclaimed "Who else can be more creative than my daughter!" That was a bountiful moment. Tears flowing freely from her eyes and nose, she kissed him and hugged him tightly. And the teacher too, witnessed the scene with a sly smile.. What would have been in her mind? Yet another secret...

Deflating the inflations..

I am a big "O"!

A round face, round eyes, round nose, round cheeks, round chin, and a round mouth. Whatever you can see in the name of neck is also round. Then comes the round body with small hands dangling on either side to make it rounder.. So at the first glance, it looks like.. a small round on top of a big one.

It is babyfat, my friends said... even after I had my own babies. Chubby cheeks, cutie chin,.. they sang. Where ever I saw lovely cute and healthy body parts, others saw fat. I am not fat. It is just that my weight doesn't correspond to my height. The problem is with my height. I am comfortable in my own skin, no matter what frame it is stretched over. I used to admire my dimpled thighs and ballooned belly. People with a round face are quite jovial, and are very lucky, says those learned ones.

But then one day I had enough of it. Well, it can be bothersome, to have my size commented on. It's time to say bye to my babyfat, I decided. And make that O an I. Well, there's no harm in trying, right? First I tried to fool people by camouflaging it with brushes and blushers. The warpaint was on! Still the O remained an O. I decided to start deflating from my cheeks. "Blow balloons", someone suggested. "I will send balloons in crates", my cousin teased. Chewing gums will help you, said a magazine. I chewed and chewed, but the only result I got was an addiction to those chewing gums. My face started to look like that of a ruminant's. Suck air in, and then blow out in force whenever you can, said a friend. I started doing that everytime I remembered, regardless of time and place, until I realised that those stares and sneers were actually meant for me!

The realisation dawned that home remedies are not going to help. So I put on my shoes and went in search of a trainer. He has agreed to change my complete upholstery. So now I am jumping, running, puffing, panting.. all just to shrink my carefully bloated body! Only one part was needed for the inflation.. my mouth. But for the deflation, it takes the combined work of all my mental and physical organs.. To inflate is human, to deflate, Divine!!

A woman to love...

I am a strong woman, and quite stubborn. Life has not always been kind. But I think in the end, it is what you make out of it. I have learned to trust my instincts, and do whatever I believe to be right and just. I am open, my heart is whole, and so, I can love fully.

There are many things that I love and enjoy. I love my beautiful home, my swingcot, raindrops, chocolate ice cream... I love to sketch, paint, read, dream, the still dark night... I love Irish coffee, Ksara wine, Bacardi with Ginger beer...I love books, music, silence, rains, forests... I love my mom, my two darling boys, my husband... Yes, I am a woman to love, and in love!

I can honestly say that I love somebody, so very much, with all my heart. And there is nothing that can take that awareness away from me.

I love him for his character, warmth and generosity, for his passions, for the way he makes me laugh, for the way he is so open about his feelings, for the way I know I can trust him more than any other person I've ever known... I love him for his kindness and gentleness, for his honesty, for his talent, for his creativity, for his ambition, and for his drive... My lover, my best friend, my soulmate...!

I'm sorry if this sounds too good to be true, and you are reaching for the sickbag. But I don't have to kiss enough frogs to recognise my Prince...

.

Yet, I was never blind in love. I chose to be strong, in the sense that I felt I had to do everything on my own, that I didn't need anyone, nor could I depend on anyone or ever fully trust anyone. There were times when I felt empty. The facade I maintained allowed me to live the lie that being strong meant never letting anyone in. I was a scared, bitter person masquerading as a strong, self-reliant woman. When you try to contain everything, pretending everything is okay, it eats you up--and when you live each day with it, you soon forget that there's something wrong.. and you eat it up. Why should I be imprisoned by my circumstances and let it affect my life? I am not going to let my circumstances decide who I am going to be! I am not going to let all that I didn't have determine my future or cap my potential. I am not going to be limited by what others have said about me or what is expected of me.

.

I live honestly in the present moment, bravely facing what lies ahead, complete with new understanding of what lies behind me, though no longer subject to the past. I am becoming all that I am meant to be...

Reating.. or.. Eading..?

I was not brought up in a "Everybody eat together at the table" home. The rule was if your stomach growls, have your food. I started to bury my nose deep into words while having food. Suited me fine.. I could gulp down all the crap that has been served to me. I could watch my diet pefectly. I never knew what I was eating. I could eat less and be full too! There was only one problem.. one single meal lasted for hours. The lifeless papers used to become alive in front of me. I used to lose myself in other people's mind. It was one of the great pleasures that solitude could afford me.

It was a nightmare when dad used to come on leave, and we had to eat together. Dad quibbling over table manners, Mom's complaints about the report cards, the correct posture, correct sound to make while chewing!!! And those vegetables which I was supposed to eat for my eyes, ears, nose, skin.. Phew! It was too much. No more books on the dining table. I had to talk. Holding intimate conversations with the invisible characters of a book and with the visible people sitting around me were beyond comparison.

But the lightning struck when I forgot to make sure that this habit is ok with the man I was going to marry. There even if your tummy grumbles, even if you are ready to swallow a horse, you wait till everyone come. When the food is served, you opened your mouth and talked while eating! Food started to have some flavour. My tastebuds started to work and told me which is which! Never knew chilly was spicy and tomotoes were sour.

Now when my children carry their food in one hand and a book in the other hand, I keeep quiet. But my gourmet hubby scowls. I exchange meaningful glances with my kids, and wait for my hubby to go back to office so that we can lose ourselves again in those imaginary places, with our invisible friends.

Love....Uff! The oft repeated topic..

The other day my friend was telling me she was head over heels in love with someone which made me sit and really think.. Why is it that we always talk about Love? We want to love, and be loved.. and also to fall 'in' love too!

I had loved my dad. He was, for me, a Santaclaus. He used to visit me every year with lots of gifts. But he was never there for me when I had needed him. He was never there to take any major decisions in my life. He was never a friend, and used to throw his weight around. For him, love was something which you hide inside your heart. So is my mom. Her love was and is always kept under the wrap. She was always sceptical. I always used to keep to myself. Hmm.. that was always better. In my leafing out.. my likes, my ambitions.. all I swept under the carpet. I never took it out and dusted. Maybe these things toughened me up a lot. Still I love her.

They brought a man in front of me. He is your husband, you should love him. OK, I will.. and I did.. and I do. Then it was the turn of two cute alsaetians. Oh I love them too! My own darlings, the products of our love. How I love them..! Even when they fight tooth and nail, even when they cheat me by reading comics inside their textbooks, even when they make me get ready to reserve a bed in the nearest asylum...

I was never given an oppurtunity to choose.. There was no option. No waiting for love to happen and blossom. I could never experience what it was like to choose to love someone. (Oh no.. I am not that touch-and-feel type who is blinded by Mills and Boons and Harlequins. But somewhere deep inside me, sleeps a hardcore romantic.) The Sinatra and Lionel Richie I was devouring made me realise that I have never fallen 'in' love. The soft melodies and the raindrops forced me to go out and look out for someone to sweep me of my feet and steal my heart.

And the quest began! For someone to come in his bike and take me out to wilderness ...

-

Parting shot:

"Love is sometimes denied, sometimes lost, sometimes unrecognised....

But in the end, always found with no regrets, forever valued and kept treasured"

- Anonymous

An anonymous whisper...

The fun I used to have in my teens were really marvellous. If anyone had thought since I was an only child with a single parent, studying in a women's college, my life would have been drab, then they are in for a surprise!

We.. me and my inseparable friend, (then and now too), always find ways to keep ourselves amused. There were those long phone calls made late night (after everyone started to snore so that we can update our informations and GKs about locals) interrupted by a telephone operator whose main hobby during his night shift was to eavesdrop our tete a tete. He later said he always accepted his colleague's night shifts too so that he also would be kept updated. We were completely unaware of this third party intruding in our gosspis till one day when we were out of topic and was just idlying in petty matters, a voice suddenly said "Comeon girls, today you are sooooo boring.."! We both still dont know how we survided that moment.. cold and paralysed with fear and embarrasment, we couldnt find our voice even to ask who that person was! To make the matters worse, we were so startled to hear a stranger that the phones and the stands all tumbled down, making the snoring parents wake up and catch us redhanded.

The next day when we called, we were holding our breath! And then the voice came, saying that we kept him company in his otherwise boring job. He was a telephone operator in our telephone exchange. We were unsure of what to do. We had decided not to disclose ourselves. But he gave us our own history and geography word by word. He even knew the names of the boys we were eyeing. He used to sing songs for us, there were comments for each of our sentence, and a solution for the problems. We could know who all were calling whom. He could keep track of everyone's telehone calls, and we were reported immediately if someone we had eyes on had called and flirted with someone else. We were notified when our parents talked behind us. And most important, our phones were never out of order. Complaints were immediately taken care of without being asked.

It was like that for almost two years.. Our telephone became a living thing. It had a voice. It had life. And it had Power too. Then one day he got transferred. He had to go from our exchange. Even after going to another place, he used to contact us.. Sometimes, in the middle of our talk, a song used to weave its way to our ears.. Then slowly, he disappeared from our life.. Even now, we used to think about him.. our anonymous telephone operator.

My Union with 'ME'!

I and 'ME'

Inseparable.. in a rhythm

Swaying to the music of the silence

Reveling in the unseen beauty

Singing the unsung songs

Wandering in the never trodden paths

Hand in hand,

Soul in soul,

Heart in heart,

I walked with my 'ME'!

How sweet the harmony we are in now!

When time become timeless

And we become ageless…

A life of minds

Of equality and mutuality

As winged souls flying to infinity together

All lights and music

Ecstasy and rapture

I and my 'ME'! ! !

A cup of tea

My first sip of tea in the morning is a truly good moment. I like to be alone, curled up in my favourite corner of the sofa, in the silence of my own solitude, with a steaming cup of tea in my left hand, and a Britannia Marie in my right. I let the steam rise and mist my face as I breathe it in and I let my mind wander, and settle into a deeply contemplative mode.

There used to be a doubt as to how long one should dunk the biscuit in the tea to get that perfect taste. I started from twenty seconds. By the time I completed counting 10, the biscuit disappeared. So I tried 8. No.. too messy. Cant take it out from the cup. 5 seconds is ok, but then it didnt taste like biscuit. So I settled on 3.. I took the biscuit, dipped it in my tea, and counted one, two, three.. and out. Well, it was not that perfect. Okie dokie, try again.. Now I counted one thousand, two thousand, three thousand.. and out! YES.. this is the perfect time needed to dip a biscuit in the tea to get that perfect taste and limpness. It just melts in your mouth. Yummmmyy...!!

Valentine Whispers

I like Valentine's day. I like any other days too for that matter, when I dont have to cook ... God bless St.Valentine, and all those Archies and Jugheads (or is it Hallmarks?) who make all these days to sell their products... and who try hard to empty our purse too. There is a Valentine's day, a Woman's day, a Mother's day, .. all those days I simply love! In thy name.. I refuse to enter the kitchen! I still dont understand why there is a Woman's day. Isn't every day our day? ;)

Thoughtless whispers.....

My scars are deep. But I never weep. My spirits heal fast. I turn my life around my fingers. Whatever happens, I twist it to suit my way.

I dont have much sad memories of my life.(Not incidents, but memories). I cherish only the happy ones. I prioritise my priorities. I make compartments. In one I dump all the unhappy incidents, and keep it tightly closed. Occasionally I empty the bin. In one, I stack my happy memories. Once in a while, I take each one out, and polish it, and keep it back.

This is Me... Dont be surprised if you get an occasional whisper from me. Let me.. I have made the whisper deliberately thoughtless.. Sounds nice, doesn't it?