CAT and other communicable diseases. Confusing. Yes. :P.

It is said having to fight for something makes you feel all the better when you get it. It must be in this spirit that they erected huge illogical barriers called ‘entrance exams' around any monument of higher education in this country. Probably after having fought tooth and nail with half the population in the district and gotten into some marvelous place of learning, when you discover that its not exactly what you dreamed of, your disappointment will be a lot less knowing that you beat all of them others to it! ok, what I’m trying to say is that I have always resented having to fight for something, especially ‘professional education’. I wouldn’t have minded if I was fighting to get into some place that will infuse me with knowledge and wisdom and taught me to think freely and bravely; but fighting half the country and turning into a trained math and logic monkey to pay through my nose (my dad’s actually) for an education which will sap my energies and make me one among a million others in the rat race? No thank you. I’d rather get my BA and read through the evenings and between classes.

Filled with all these feelings, I said good bye to Medical entrance and engineering entrance and a host of other entrances and took my bag and landed myself in a good ol worthless Arts college , much to the chagrin of aunties and uncles. One year in college and my resolve weakened under the strain of learning absolutely nothing (and I mean nothing) and being miserable as can be. Not only had I randomly chosen a graduate course, I didn’t have any idea what to do once, that is if, I made it out of there with a degree. The familiar question ‘So what are your plans after this?” heard from since high school popped up once again as soon as the first miserable year in college was coming to a close. I realized that after the superb disaster that was college, I shouldn’t trust my future to myself anymore.

And that is how I ended up one day, father in tow, to sign myself up for a being groomed for that Holy Grail Mother Pearl of all ‘entrance exams’- CAT. Thankfully I had enough sense to drag my best friend down with me and we happily resolved to take the Entrance coaching genie take over and make managerial candidate material out of us. One day in the coaching class and all we could do to prevent our selves from running out was to think of the astronomical sum, that we in our moment of utter complete stupidity had made our parents spent. So we convinced ourselves that we were being smart, thinking ahead etc and dragged ourselves to class every Saturday and odd Sundays and even tried to fit math into our unyielding heads to prepare for some exam that lay one and a half years ago. But soon it got easy; we learned to hood wink the ever vigilant coordinators more and more often and the ‘Entrance coaching Saturdays’ blurred into insignificance as college life bloomed; popping into our minds only when we went to bed Friday thinking “damn! Tomorrow’s Saturday”. What was better, anytime anyone had questions about my future plans, I had my answer ready and this time it wasn’t “ummm… aah… I..” but one that instantly elicited approving nods and pat in the backs. Life was okay.

A year passed and an MBA was the farthest thing in our minds; way there at infinity, gathering dust with marriage and Diet Coke. But of course, another month passed and then another and another, and it was time to get the exam over with it. After seriously contemplating avoiding wasting more money on a useless pursuit, we finally brought our tickets and resigned ourselves to the exam. Unlike the good old test which gave the not altogether un-fun prospect of putting dots on paper, we were to write the fancy computerized CAT. On D day me and my unfortunate buddy rose at five and proceeded to the venue where we were to reach two hours prior to the exam’s beginning to go through with all the endless formalities concerning the exam. (And I though t computers were supposed to make things simpler) Owing to a pitiful ignorance of distance and time we reached the venue one hour before we were supposed to, to be greeted by similar people waiting around for the entrance committee to arrive. Soon things got rolling. We were to deposit all personal belongings except wallets outside the building. Off went the phones, watches, pacemakers et al. After a casual verification of IDs we were led upstairs through dingy stairs and left in front of another counter. The extremely helpful coordinator read through my license again and pointed to another counter. We turned expectantly and there it was, a frisking counter. A woman in her thirties stood near a curtained enclosure; her genuine smile contrasting with the ‘holy mother of God’ expression pasted on our faces. I removed my shoes and manged to get myself into the miniscule frisking compartment. With extreme tact, the frisker lady enquired after my family as she shoved her hand into my pant pockets (skinny jeans is not the best attire for CAT day) and checked my under arms for explosives. With a final request to surrender any suspicious material I may have carried at the next counter she released me and directed the bunch of us to the computer lab we were to take the test. Another round of verifying IDs and then our mug shots were taken and we were ordered to sit in front of the assigned computers, facing away from the screens to wait out the half an hour before the exam began. “And no talking either” someone barked.

I studied the test direction booklet till it was permanently tattooed in my brain and then scrutinized my driving license until the words on it lost meaning. After a bit more torture, the test was about to begin; the culmination of many months of struggle for a lot of students. The instructors hovered around reminding us not to press this button and that (why have those buttons?). Pencils and erasers were handed out with directions to handle them with care and we were allowed to face the screen to take the test. I went through the directions flashing on the screen once again, panic attack was coming on. The timer on the screen was not helping either. I took a deep breath and began. What have I got to lose anyway?

The test was over before it began; the timer furiously ticked away until it ran out. Phew! It was over. Finally. I was ready to jump up and down with joy. But the coordinators paid no attention to my puppy dog eagerness to run out; there were things to be done yet. One of the co-ords came around to collect the materials we were given; paper, pencils, erasers etc. I smiled and handed everything I had to him. He gravely returned the pencils and eraser and told me to wait for the assigned person to come. The next person came around and I gingerly handed him the pencils. The man stayed. But, okay, there is no separate person for the erasers? Here you go. More grave faces. They counted the papers, pencils, erasers and then handed back all the papers we had initially deposited with them. All the organized seriousness on the coordinators’ faces was sending me into fits of laughter. What’s the big deal? A woman who resembled an old movie actress glared me into submission. Come on… It’s only an exam.

“Alright styuudents, now you may go” someone said and I was out of there at lightning speed. Clumps of people waiting for the next session of CAT were outside. God help them. As for me, I had to rush home and throw the Entrance prep books out the window.

Edging north on the Kerala Express

There are many things that make up the experience of being Indian. And one of them undoubtedly is the great Indian rail ride; a true slice of the chaotic, strangely captivating, miraculously functional mess that our country is.

Trains are a world within a world, with their own set of rules, customs and characters. From the time you set foot inside a Railway station, with its quaint weighing machines right out of a village fair handing out cardboard snippets of wisdom, you are transported into a mini Indian village of sorts. Then the train arrives; carrying proud names on its shades of blue, dusty from many wanderings. You find your designated seat and if you’re in the sleeper class, you politely remove ticket less travelers faking sleep in your berth and settle down into your home for the next few hours or days. Then you greet the neighbours with a smile as you chain your luggage and spread newspapers under it. You then take out your book but soon get lost in the landscape outside and the chattering inside; reading the same page again and again.

The first time one travels on the Indian railways, there’s a sense of surprise that a system as complicated as it works smoothly; that the tracks are switched at the right places and that the pantry delivered your order with precision. It strikes you as one of the few things that runs with relative regularity in this land of mayhem (it and the Infosys!). For a traveler, the train journey is as exciting any destination he could be headed to; a capsule of sensations which this grand country of ours can throw up. The train whisks you through green plains and as you hoot and pass into another stop on the way, strange voices and tongues ring around you; village women selling fruit, the ever present tea vendor in another avatar and with a different flavored brew, bangle sellers, over dressed dames selling chappathi sticks while calling out to passengers in many different languages. Some of your fellow travelers get off and a new assortment settle into their seats; sometimes a loud contingent of Marathi women, speaking in grating voices, or a group of middle aged malayalees, discussing politics and agriculture all day. Then there are the beggars; singing blind women, amputees and horrifyingly disabled men, little children with their mothers whose desperation and vacant eyes move you into handing out change even as you tell yourself you are, in principle against such an act.

All through this, the train chugs along, rocking you to sleep. Another stop and you’re woken up by a little fellow who sweeps the filthy compartment floor on all fours in anticipation of a few coins from kind travelers grateful for the slightly cleaner floor. You go on. The tunnels play hide ans seek if you’re on the Konkan; plunging you into darkness and then bursting suddenly into the sun. As you enter the ‘Northern states’ there’s the familiar shouts of ‘vada paav’ vendors. Then a hush falls and the men and women fake sleep as ‘Hijras’ board the Express;clapping their hands and prodding terrorized travelers as they go from one compartment to the next. Spare change doesn’t cut with them, and caught in a fix, you fish out a ten rupee note and smile embarrassed at their blessings. The pantry worker negotiates the busy ‘streets’ inside the train as he delivers meals and goes on the routine ‘Tea-Cofee-Cool drinks-vegetable cutlet’ rounds. And if he and you are from the same part of the country, there’s a friendly nod and a special enquiry in the language you share. “chaaya vende?”

The day passes quickly; time’s passage marked only by the stations stops and meal times. And once the pantry workers serve dinner and take a last round selling water, its time to go to bed. As if on cue, berths go up into their place and blankets come out. You’re left with no option but to shut your book and switch of the lights in polite solidarity with the sleepy eyed majority. The you can either take out your own blanket or join the small crowd of youngsters charging their phones at one end of the train; extension cords in hand. Or even better, you can sit on the door way of the train with your legs dangling; enjoying the chill of the night and the lights in distant villages, and thinking of the next day and the encounters that await you.

Munnar of the mist and the tea and the strawberries

Munnar is not for the hungry tourist looking for new things to do and pictures of things to fill his album. It is for the lazy traveler, with time on his hands and the patience to let his destination wash over him; to imbibe its air and find its heart. Its is also for one who cares as much if not more about the journey than about the destination, for the winding roads which lead to the hill town are surrounded by stunning views. The sounds of the forest fill the air around when you stop at a wayside stream and step out of the car.

The best way to experience the magic of Munnar is not to go to ‘Munnar town’ as they call it. The place is filled with hotels and home stays. I found myself at ‘off season’ time, at a quiet little hotel where I was the only guest. It rained softly and the view from the room revealed tea gardens stretching forever below. There was a river at a distance; it seemed frozen in its descent through the valley; the waters still. The entire scene looked like a post card.

The air was chilled as I stepped out of the hotel to take ride in a Jeep which promised to show me all the sights in Munnar. A jeep ride is refreshing, the open cabin and the bumpy ride makes you feel less like a tourist and more at home. And best of all, it usually doesn’t have a stereo to annoy you with outdated Malayalam/ Tamil songs of the driver’s tastes. We drove through and checked out the town; on the way stopping to look at a ‘honey bee tree’ which was over burdened with honey combs on every branch. There were also two haggard looking men selling what looked like bottles of honey underneath the tree ( “probably melted jaggery’ the driver warned)

We drove on. Despite my protestations, the driver insisted on taking me to all the must see destinations around the town; a small botanical garden, an curved expanse of land over looking a lake, named echo point for obvious reasons. All along the curved roads small streams flowed down the rocks above. The best part of the drive was of course stopping at breathtakingly scenic places and lazing around there,taking it all in, and there were many such places. Among the greenery and the mild falling rain, small shacks selling roast corn and fresh carrots tempted. We stopped on the way side at a middle aged tamil lady’s shed. A wood stove boiled and roasted fresh corn, which was then given a generous sprinkling of lemon and red chilly paste. Nothing could go better with the atmosphere. A bunch of fresh carrots washed in a small stream emerging out of the rocks nearby for the way, and we’re off again.

Munching corn and carrots and breathing in the dewy air while lazily swaying as you watch some of the best scenes in Munnar; there’s nothing else I could ask for. As the evening approached we stopped at the beginning of a winding road, moving upwards and surrounded by greenery. Kothamedu, the driver called it. I got out of the vehicle and walked up the deserted road. At clearings on the Tea gardens and small settlements of labourers were seen. I passed a road side shrine with small deities flanked by various little ribbons and flags and a decorated trident nearby. Hours later, reaching sufficient height, I stopped to take in the view. The sun was setting and mist was descending swiftly. Within seconds the view in front of me had vanished. The thick mist curtained everything; it was as though the sky had come down. I set off for my hotel room.

After dinner, it was time to go for a walk. Being a long way from town, the road was deserted, visibility poor due to the mist. I could barely see as I walked through the empty road. The buildings on either side were obscured by the mist; only their bright lamps shining hazily in the air. Two and three storey buildings looked like space ships suspended in air, only the lights on their outer walls visible.

The next morning, I set out to Eravikulam to catch sight of the famously elusive Nilgiri Tahr. After purchasing tickets, a bus owned by the National park took a small bunch of us to the park, situated at a high altitude. Scarcely expecting to see the Tahr, I was in for a pleasant surprise. The silhouette of a majestic tahr on the rocky hill top greeted us as we stepped off the vehicle. The shy animals were everywhere that day. Mothers grazed on the lane leading up the park. He tahr had gotten used to human presence, at least on the fringes of the park which were open to visitors. A particularly friendly one followed me around a bit, sniffing me curiously. Polite but cautious guards watched from every corner , alert to any untoward behavior from the visitors. The tahr, once almost extinct had thrived under constant care. Now they seemed to have lost their wild streak, no longer feeling threatened by humans. We spotted the famous neelakurinji plants lining the pathways at some places. As we prepared to leave, the rain which had been falling mildly since morning eased and the sun came out. Most of the animals disappeared soon. The later visitors won’t be as lucky as us. On the way back to the hotel I stopped on a tiny shop near the Kannan Devan Hill plantation's factory, to buy fresh tea and strawberries deliciously preserved in sugar. I will be back for more.

Rain midwater

The first time I realized the magnificence of rain was many years ago when I took a boat with family to visit my father’s island village. This tiny land mass is separated from mainland by the backwaters and the only way to reach it is to take a small motorized boat which ferries people back and forth across the grey water. The boat is to be caught from a small makeshift jetty at the tip of the mainland, tucked away among the houses which line the coast. To reach it, we walk through dingy streets spreading from the highway and punctuated with communal water pipes where people gather with their colourful plastic pots and buckets to collect water and share news. At the end of these streets lies the jetty where those headed to the island await the boat. It appears suddenly at a distance, and then seems to slow down; lazily humming as it approaches. The men walk back and forth on the rickety wooden platform which is the jetty. It is held up areca nut poles plunged into the muddy banks. The children amuse themselves on the mounds of clam shells and cuttle fish bones which lie around the waiting shed. There is an old quicklime factory nearby which uses up all the shells and leaves a dry smokiness in the air. It mingles with smells of the wet wooden planks and the water weeds which wash up on the banks. The green stick like seeds of the surrounding mangroves can be seen floating around in the water, perfectly straight, on their way to suitable place to grow roots into.

I walked to the edge of the water, picking shells and throwing them around. Dad watches me from a distance for a while, and then joins me, pointing out the tiny shelled creatures sticking to the stones lining the banks on either side of the jetty; barnacles, he calls them. They even grow on whales. We talk about whales and how nice it would be if someone would scrape their unsightly backs, which are crusted with barnacles as we had often seen on TV, when the boat arrives. One of the men who run the service jumps out first, drawing the boat to the jetty with ropes and securing it to a pole. Impatient men jump out, followed by women who are helped off by them. The man who emerged first collects the fare from the people waiting to board as the small boat empties. Then we all hop in; the women sit on the wooden planks built across the breadth of the boat and the men balance themselves on the edges; carefully distributing them selves on the either side to prevent the boat from capsizing from uneven weight.

The driver fires up the small motor and we’re on our way, the sun falling strongly on us, blurring our vision. There is vibrant chatter on board; politics and elopements fill the air above the boat. We’re almost in the middle of the water when the sky suddenly clouds over and cool wind blows in from the sea beyond the back waters. The chatter falls silent and the boat rocks from side to side as the mood of the water changes. I look where the water curves and disappears behind the mainland. The scenery of palm trees blurs, as if covered by a sheet. My dad points and tells me “look, that’s the rain coming” I am unable to comprehend what he means but continue looking. Then there it was, the rain racing across the water from the see to meet us. We could see the water surface rippling with raindrops a little distance away from us. Then the rain engulfed our boat, stranded mid water. Umbrellas go up, useless against the strong shower which drenches from all sides. The boat started moving slowly again, all conversation was washed away by the rain and we were caught in a strange world; water below and water above. All I could see was the vision of the rain furiously progressing inland from the sea a few moments before, drowning everything in its wake, changing the landscape in a split second display.

Bad Hair Day

Why do bad things always happen to me? This was the only thought on my mind today as I sat in front of a mirror at my hair dresser’s. Let me recap.

I’d been thinking of getting a haircut for a while. Just a haircut, no big deal. So off I went today, to the same ‘beauty parlour’ I’ve been going to since I was an atom. It’s a homey little place, run by a frail middle aged woman who watches Malayalam soaps as she watches over as her assistants beautify her customers. It was a busy day; the assistant girls were running around, picking up this and that. One was bend over a young girl, dutifully scraping off her bushman eyebrows with a tricky little arrangement consisting of a long thread held tight between her teeth. The technician twists this thread with her hands and runs it over her customer’s eyebrows, pulling out each eyebrow hair. The sight reminded me of the time when I allowed myself to be tortured thus once. Ouch! The things women have to do make themselves appealing to hairy men. Do men even care about eyebrows? Has anyone asked?

The beauty parlour matron looked up from a facial she was supervising and asked me what I wanted to do. Haircut… a U or a step ? “Hmm.. I don’t know” , I stammered. I tried my best to explain the vague idea that I had fantasized over with carefully chosen words and wild hand movements. “Get a U cut’ she said. “No I want a little flare here and some layer here and I ..” I started off again. The assistant who was waiting to pluck my feathers looked anxiously at me and then her mistress. Sensing the desperation, I gave up.“oh never mind, just cut it off ”

The haircutting section was familiar territory to me. I looked to see if the calendar with twelve Chinese faces demonstrating hairstyles unattainable by normal people was still in place. Yup, there it was, right where I can stare at it while I got my miserable mane cut off. The hair dresser sat me down on the chair and covered me up with a yellow protective fabric with a cool Velcro strap to hold it in place around my neck. She then proceeded to spray and shake up my head. I relaxed and started flipping the magazine in front of me. I feel so important!

Then the battle started.

Ever noticed how after an unpleasant experience, our mind forgets it very fast or dims the memory a little? Then you will find yourself spot on the same situation again and the recollection will hit you on your face with a saucepan. Well that’s what happened as the hairdressing started. The woman pulled my poor hair, pushed my head down and poked me on the scalp with a stupid clip as she tried to hold my hair in place! I had gone through all this before and suddenly realized why I hadn’t got a hair cut in the last six months.

The mild torture was interrupted as she called in another assistant to hold my hair up as she cut around it. There we were, these two women holding up my hair as I watched at the mirror half amused and half anxious. As this circus was going on, a messenger arrived. Someone had called for one of the hair dressers (the main one of course) looking down on me; her mother was sick and she was wanted at home. The scissors shook in the woman’s hands. “Oh damn! My hair..”

“Who called? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?, I heard the phone ringing ten minutes ago…” the affected woman yelled at the girl who brought the message. I looked about the room, petrified. “er… maybe someone else could finish this ..” I suggested feebly. “I can’t go now, I have to finish this, its hair; I can’t leave it midway” the hairdresser declared, without paying me any attention. The woman has no intention of leaving to see her ailing mother; probably on her death bed, waiting for one last look at her daughter. I was screwed. Why? Why me? The lady kept cutting my hair at an unnatural pace. I looked at the mirror anxiously as she aired her grievances in an agitated voice to all around. Snip snip snip. I will be lucky to get out of here with my head in one piece.

Of all the people in the world, this had to happen to me. The old bat had to fall sick while her daughter was cutting my hair; my hair which hadn’t been cut for six months. The snipping continued, interrupted at intervals by more phone calls. Finally with another flourish it was almost done. “Is this fine? Do you want me to cut a little more off the back?’ the ‘aggrieved’ daughter asked cheerfully. “Ah, no it’s just the way I wanted” I said without a glance and jumped out of the chair. Phew!

Anything can happen.

I opened my eyes for a split second and sank my head back into the pillow to escape the weary morning’s coming. The day was impatient to begin its routine.I turned around to sneak my head beneath the pillow, then pulled the blanket over myself and waited for sleep. The day ahead crowded into my head in a procession of images. Breakfast, bus, books, buildings; another enactment of yesterday and the day before and the one before that. My eyes were already awake beneath their lids.

I turned around in desperation and opened my eyes, still covered by the blanket. The sheet was white over my eyes. That’s weird; my blanket was cream with giant brick colored monstrous flowers. I sat up in confusion. The sheet was indeed white. I pulled it off of me. the white dress I had worn to bed last night, which looks like an elongated T-shirt, as though it was stitched for Tree beard, was splashed with big brick colored flowers all over. I tried to rub it off, but before I could understand what was happening, the strange light in the room forced me to look up at the ceiling. The fan fluttered with its usual “taduk taduk” motion. It lay suspended by an endless cord which stretched into the bright blue morning sky. My ceiling was gone. I looked around. The walls were intact and everything was in place, though in a confused mass of colours. I had curtain flowered walls, wall colored curtains and a shocking door with a myriad colored doormat pattern painted over it. I jumped off the bed, and still staring at the sky overhead, ran out of the room. The ceiling of the rest of the house was as I had left them lat night. I ran back into my room. A crow flew past lazily. I shoved my feet into my slippers, which had the floor tiles pasted on to the sole by the way, and ran out into the front yard and looked at the roof of the house. From outside everything looked normal, the roof was intact where my room was supposed to be. No holes. I ran back into my room to find the sky still there inside, seemingly stretching forever above me. Mom was in the room, stacking the clothes from yesterday’s laundry into my cupboard. Was she blind? “Go get ready” she said as she picked up what looked like an ‘inside out’ book from the floor and put it on my table on her way out. What was happening?.........................

Karma

Growing up, I was fortunate enough to not be burdened with the concept of sin; things were right and wrong of course, but lying to your brother about the number of chocolates you took out of the fridge didn’t necessarily mean that you will have to spend eternity in vats of boiling oil being deep fried with a pitchfork sticking to the back. After being introduced to Indian mythology at a relatively young age, I began to speculate on how my daily wanderings would convert into what I would become in my ‘next life’. I had read about kings and heavenly creatures being reborn as ordinary guys, lowly animals or other unsavory creatures. So if I kept up my hobby of climbing over the compound wall long enough, maybe I would end up a hairy green monkey. Fantastic! Slowly though, I inevitably came to believe in the tit for tat, instantaneous justice of ‘karma’ as they call it.

The best thing about karma was of course that it made sense. Like any basic law in the universe, it balanced all things we did. Do good things and good things happen to you, do bad things and you lose your phone at the department store or fall on your face while getting out of the bus. Simple, straight forward and easy to follow.

Karma was working out perfectly for me. It didn’t keep me out of evil ways but it did give an incentive to good deeds And all bad things, all the terrible acts I did were done with full knowledge that it was all coming back one of these days. All was fine for a while, then bam! It was payback time. And a new dilemma emerged. Now, I have hurt people, I have made terrible errors of judgment. So when the same things happen to me, I know where it’s coming from. But the problem is, does knowing that take away my right to try and dodge the misfortunes approaching me? Believing in karma, do I fight it? Or do I take karma lying down, allowing it to balance out all my evils? Hmmm.

Think again.

Right when you think you know all there’s to know about the people around you, they’ll throw up he biggest of surprises. Being young and snobbish I happen to think the older freedom struggler generation and the latest technology could never really go together. Until this happened.

Recently my dad’s mom, my grandmother, turned seventy something, I’m not sure which exactly, but its on the wrong side of 75 (I know, I should know these things, but that’s not the point..) so my dad, always enthusiastic about buying gifts, decided to get her ..a mobile phone! Everyone in the family pooh poohed the idea of course, especially me and my brother who had a hard time comprehending why a guy who took five years of going back and forth before buying us phones could come up with such an idea !

A phone, that too for our paternal grandmother who dropped off from school in the 3^rd standard and whose life revolves around her beloved cows, her spinach farm and an obsession with temples of all kind. The fact that a similar experiment with my very educated, very cool, retired headmistress maternal grandmother had failed miserably wasn’t very encouraging either.

But dad was adamant, so off we went to the mobile phone store, and bought a very basic easy to use phone for my grandma whose closest encounter with technology is probably the TV and the electronic voting machine. Then we dutifully filled the speed dial with contacts of all my grandma’s our off springs. In the evening dad went off to present the phone to her and to give her instructions on using it. He came back happy with grandma’s response and we all felt pretty optimistic that at least we’ll be able to call her on her very own phone rather than depend on the ‘land line’. Soon we all forgot about it.

Then one morning a week later, my mobile phone started vibrating me off my bed at bloody 6 in the morning. I flipped it open and it’s a call from grandma ! She was calling to ask whether I and my brother would be coming to the ancestral temple at kumbhalanghi for a ritual. I said something and passed the phone to my dad. From then on there was no looking back. Apparently my nearly eighty, almost illiterate grandma was taking the phone everywhere she went. We got calls from her as she temple hopped all the way to palani and guruvayoor and god knows where else. Dad was ecstatic at the success of his 'mission bring mama to 21st century'.

All was well for a while, the family rejoiced at their 'forward' thinking.But recently the phone has become an eyesore for my uncle and aunt with whom my granny lives at the old house. Now, my grandma’s a very stubborn little lady-a tough nut-so now, whenever a little tiff happens between her and my uncle, my dad’s mobile would ring off the hook. An endless stream of complaints would burst forth. Then dad would spent time pacifying her. Same goes with my aunts as well, one little thing – temple festivals, an abundant harvest of chikkoos or yams to give away, another fight with my uncle – and grandma’ll hit the speed dial! I started feeling a whole lot of respect for the lady. She had lived all her life taking care of a tough husband and four children and an endless stream of pet cows. Yet she had defied all our expectations and embraced the new technology like a pro. The only people miffed are my uncle and aunt. They’re apparently tired of granny calling all the people we know and complaining about this and that at home!... (She even called the temple priest up on his mobile phone and complained that my uncle never took her anywhere! ) so now my uncle always thinks twice before saying anything insensitive to my grandma which could potentially throw her into a phone rage… go grandma!... a woman liberated :)

smoke

I’ve heard that when we face death, our whole life would pass before us in a flash. One flash. A single moment when all the moments that touched us flicker one last time in our eyes.

Made me wonder what I will see if I was to face death today. Life seems so long and endless sometimes but the moments I’ve lived, truly lived, are so few and far between. Almost twenty years of life and what have I felt? Large stretches of my life are like air trapped in an empty bottle in the attic. No ripples, no fragrance, no rising dust. Then one of those moments happen when time that had stood still until then suddenly becomes real. But soon the sudden tide settles and the waters become still until another one hits.

If death were to stare at me in the face right at this moment what would I remember? What would flash? Maybe the sudden joy when mom and not the maid came to school to pick me up after school just once in kindergarten. The numbness when in my head as my dad lifted a four year old me, covered in blood from a gash on the forehead, and ran as he waved to halt a bus to take me to the emergency room. Running wildly through the light and shade of the old acacia trees in the old school court yard with the best of friends. The sudden shock when a trail of red down my legs took away a childhood and left me with secrets to keep and things to hide. Moments of warmth, sitting on the rails of the school bus stop, samosas in hand, talking about anything and everything. Whistles. Blushes. Waking up to the song of birds outside and walking out into the morning to discover a world changed by the night’s downpour. Other moments when you die a little, when the bed room door slams and the room fills with hate and the pink pillows become wet. Some moments stand out , those of hope, of peace. The flash of smile on grandma’s face as I walk unexpected through her smoked kitchen door, that feeling of having come home. A walk on the beach, a lonely sunset. Moments that make one dream.

Twenty years leaves one with a handful of moments. As though life existed only for a few short seconds, as though the rest was smoke. There’s no reason to crib about the loss of time then. No reason to pound at the watch as you wait for a friend on the park bench. Life happens it its own sweet time. A year lost in idleness? What does it matter? Was there one moment in it to cherish? Then you’re compensated.