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......!!!!!