Finding My Feet

The-need-to-get-away hammered against my brain like an untimely downpour even before I was fully awake. Real world was lurking outside my closed eyes and I did not want to face it. Not on that particular Sunday morning. I needed to escape, and not into Netflix or Prime Video. I had to go out. Out of my orbit.  Alone.

“Do it ‘Ma.” My firstborn, aiding and abetting me over our WhatsApp chat. His faith in my capabilities is touching. I looked at my feet on the bathroom floor. Scarred, discoloured, battle worn. They had lived through more than their fair share of misery and pain. Yet they’d see me through. I hoped.  

Google helped with the where and the how-to. Fort Kochi/Mattancherry, of course. Most sensible, time wise and money wise. And I never tire of the place.

The boat ride from Jetty was two and half songs long: the first a morose half of some modern Malayalam poem, followed abruptly by tinny versions of ‘choonariyaan ud ud gayi‘ and ‘yaad piya ki aane lagi‘ in rapid succession. Possibly for the benefit of the North Indian crowd that dominated the boat. Thankfully, we reached before the next song could begin.

From Fort Kochi jetty, I took an auto rickshaw to Paradesi Synagogue. I like going there – for the history, the blue handmade tiles below, the lovely glass-and-silver chandeliers above, and the air of lostness and stuck-in-time-ness captured in crisp Hebrew letters. 

There’s an affinity I feel for the ancient. They are repositories for stories. I even like myself better now that I did thirty years ago!

A photo wall with its David’s star to the right hand side of the entrance seemed like a new addition. I didn’t click a picture there. I just stood there wondering how a people that came peaceably to ask for refuge in a distant nation could inflict such unspeakable horrors on another.

I sat down on one of the benches inside the synagogue, and took in the tiles, the chandeliers and the sharp lines of the Hebrew words. Then walked around rereading the information on the walls. None of the information was new, but I was certain to have missed some of it earlier. The thing is, I invariably miss out details while reading or watching stuff – which is why I tend to reread books and revisit places. There’s always something new to discover. Maybe that’s the good part of ADHD: the perpetual newness.

An art cafe close to the synagogue had art exhibition in an art and antique shop, so I decided to go in. Art made for poor breakfast, I suppose, so the gallery was closed, until a kindly staff member opened it for me. The paintings themselves were mild to moderate on the scale of interesting. The space, a remnant of colonial architecture, definitely scored higher. 

The ground floor had an art shop on one side, manned by a man in an artist-looking attire. He looked up from his newspaper,  decided that I was not worth his time, and went back to his reading. His work (if it was his, that is) was certainly worth mine, so I looked around. 

Resisting the temptation of the million costume jewellery shops on either side of the street, I found my way to Ginger House, the restaurant that I had earlier on decided to grace with my presence. 

A long, dimly lit hallway waited beyond the entrance, flanked by ancient-looking statues on both sides. To the left was an antique shop. A moment ago, I had witnessed the saleslady turning away a young, eager looking couple saying that this was not just a shop, but a part of the big restaurant beyond, in case they didn’t know. Her tone implied that the restaurant might be out of their budget. Snobbery thrives well in Kochi’s humid weather.

So, just for the kick of it, I put on my best non-Malayali, pan-Indian look and accent (trust me, I’m a pro at it when push comes to shove), smiled at the saleslady, and asked her if I could look around and take pictures. She smiled a little unsure smile, gave me a once-over, and reluctantly told me to go ahead, though taking photos was not allowed, technically. I thanked her again, clicked some pics, and headed over to the restaurant. Past painted gods under spotlights, artfully placed antique pillars, and creepers spilling over with flowers.

A large, spacious, curving verandah lay at the end of the walkway, with sea on one side and an idyllic garden on the other. A stone Nandi sat peaceably near the remains of a vintage car, and a horse head was engaged in mute, frozen conversation with a plaster of Paris peacock. Other stone and wood creatures grazed amidst casually trained creepers and stone/metal benches. A stellar space. Calm, calming, and incredibly beautiful. Whoever did up Ginger House has my undying admiration.

I sat down at a wooden table, directly under a ceiling fan. Out of respect for the restaurant’s name, I ordered a glass of ginger lime, which turned out to be limey and gingery to a fault. The ‘red pasta’ ordered for main course was more red than pasta: a handful of penne, fusili and traces of overcooked vegetables drowning in a violent, gleaming, orange-red sauce that screamed of vinegar.

I had read reviews online about the food being ‘overpriced yet mediocre’. A rather kind assessment, considering. But then I didn’t go there for the food.

I took my time with lunch, washed down traces of vinegar on the tongue with stronger traces of lime juice in the pretext of black tea, paid the king’s ransom that the smiling waiter demanded, and left – vowing to return. 

Noushad, the auto driver that responded to my raised hand, hid his disappointment behind a wide, friendly smile when I informed him that I did not intend to do further sightseeing that day. He did manage to cajole me into visiting the All Spices Market on the way back, though. 

The oversized, dilapidated doorway of the market opened out to a cavernous courtyard. There was no visible human activity, though the air was dense with myriad fragrances of familiar spices. I hesitated at the entrance, wondering about my chances of featuring in the next day’s local news. Middle Aged Woman Found—

There was an algae filled well near the entrance, with large cement vats next to it, – used to wash ginger ahead of drying, I was told. A figure in a dark blue sari came out of what looked like a granary on one side and squinted at us. Reassured, I followed Noushad into the courtyard, towards where a strong, gravelly aroma of pepper was wafting from. Subhadra, the woman in blue, was drying out crushed pepper, tons of which were waiting in sacks in the dimly lit granary.

Beyond the granary were some overgrown ruins, familiar through some Malayalam movies that I couldn’t recall the names of. Noushad took some touristy photographs at my request, after which we went to the shop upstairs to buy spices. When I insisted that I couldn’t ‘tourist’ anymore, he once again hid his disappointment behind his unfaltering smile and dropped me off at the boat jetty. 

It was exhaustingly hot by then, yet the elation I felt was indescribable. The world suddenly seemed a nicer place, and I found myself smiling at complete strangers.

They say that you truly appreciate the value of something only when you are deprived of it. It had taken me more than three years of severely compromised mobility and complete disintegration of confidence, but I understood all too well how precious and beautiful a functional body was. And on that Sunday afternoon, as I stood waiting in queue for the boat, what I felt was profound gratitude.

Just a Number? Nah!

A year or so ago, during WhatsApp call with the extended family, a much younger cousin who was meeting me after ages remarked on how ‘different’ I looked now, from the last time she had seen me. Her tone was one of disbelief, with just a hint of I-don’t-know-what, but my hackles rose in defence.

Oh you think so? I can’t imagine why… After all, it’s just been twenty eight years since we last met, right? I said with withering sarcasm-

No I didn’t.

I wanted to, but couldn’t. Primarily because I suck at smart repartees, having neither the presence of mind nor the confidence to pull one off in time. As it was, a good five minutes had gone by before I could think up this one – by which time the collective conversation had thrice moved topics.  

So I just smiled benignly while fuming a little inside.

Later, I scrutinised myself in the mirror and decided that things were not as bad as her tone implied. Just a sagging neck, a couple of extra chins, some ridges on the forehead,  a frizzy grey wing on my right temple, and maybe a ton or two of extra flesh. 

So?

The mirror is kind, especially if the light is soft and you scrunch your eyes a bit. The camera, though, is heartless!

Whoever first said ‘age is just a number’ must have died young. Else they would’ve choked while eating their words.  

One thing I find really annoying is how people rush to reassure me whenever I mention something age-related. Oh, you’re not that old! No, ma’am. I’m not whining. I’m just stating the truth: my body doesn’t heal as quickly as it used to. It’s science, not self pity. I don’t think any less of myself because my hair has turned grey. If anything, it’s the opposite.

Yet, no matter how prepared you think you are to ‘age gracefully’, you’re taken aback when it actually happens. Maybe because you didn’t notice time creeping up on you quietly, taking over one cell at a time, while you were still eight-ball juggling with life. And then, one fine morning, you come face to face with a greying, slightly eccentric middle aged woman with a rather loud laugh. You.

Didn’t see that coming, did you?

The real tragedy of ageing, however, is not the loosening skin, the thinning hair or the aching knees. It’s the tectonic shift from naivety to awareness, from hope to acceptance.  You were all set to change the world, but now you know better. Therein lies the tragedy.

Ignorance waited with hope. Knowing broke your fragile world into fragments. You’re still standing at the edge of the chaos, wondering what to do with its remains.  

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Back in my childhood, there was a Tuesday ‘chanda’ (market) in the ground near the Ganapathi temple in my hometown of Nalleppilly. We used to buy almost all of the week’s supplies from there – everything from cheap stainless steel vessels to coloured glass bangles, from dry fish to firewood to vegetables, fruits and flowers. The vendors usually came from across the Tamizh Nadu border – mostly loud, outspoken women with weathered faces and oily hair.

The farm produce invariably came from Pollachi, and were sold in small heaps called kooru made on rags spread on the ground. The women would measure them out with their hands, so each kooru would vary slightly in size from the others. It’s up to you to pick the larger one and haggle for prices. If they liked you, though, they might throw in an extra vegetable or fruit.

Ulli oru kooru, oru kooru pachamulaku. Randu kooru vendakka… Oru kashnam injeem randu koth karueppelem idan marakkanda!

Maybe that’s what I’ll do. I’ll make tiny piles of my debris, and spread them out on an old bed sheet. You can go through them, pick the heaps you like, and haggle for price. And if I really like you, I might throw in a piece or two of pointless advice – who knows?

Oru kooru ‘Complex Trauma’, randu kooru ‘My Parenting Errors’, oru pidi ‘Money Management Mistakes’… oru kashnam ‘Love or Something Like It’… Ngaa…pinne, randu kothu ‘Vaiki Vanna Self Awareness’ vekkaan marakkanda… 

Though there’s always a chance that once you reach home, you may still find a worm or two. Just throw that one out, ok? The rest should be enough.

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To be continued…

The Straightest Route Home

I was twenty-one when I boarded the train, the one that took me from Olavakkode Junction to Bombay VT (now Palakkad Junction and Mumbai CST respectively). A month over twenty-one, to be exact. I was travelling with a bunch of neighbours from Nalleppilly, my hometown some fifteen kilometres off Palakkad town. My neighbours were visiting their extended families, an annual affair, and I was— What was I doing?

Running away from the black despair into which I was sinking deeper and deeper with each breath? Or dutifully stepping into the mantle of the one who should ‘finish studies, get a job, and take care of the family’? Both, I guess. I had grown up hearing ‘Nee valuthaayi joli kitteettu venam…’ The list that followed was long: look after my mother, pay back the small and big debts that had accumulated, build a house… So on and so forth. 

Hope was what awaited at the end of the thirty-six hour journey. Hope was the job I would get in the big city. Hope was the money I was going to make – which would  help me look after my mother, pay the debts, build the house… So on and so forth. 

Hope was also a thousand miles between me and the ghosts of a past that rose up from their graves every so often and took me to edge of the abyss. 

When I boarded that train, I had left behind everything that I had known for the fragmented two decades of my life. The corridors and shadows of our tharavad which had been my refuge, the trees and the deities in the backyard, the Krishna temple next door and the pond nearby where, every evening, I washed away the pain of a day’s living…

I had left behind my books, the pebbles I had gathered from the river that bordered the college where I did my graduation, some peacock feathers that someone gave me, a rose I had kept pressed between the pages of the large hardbound account book that had belonged to my grandfather, and some glass marbles with air bubbles trapped in them.

I had also left behind all the faces that were familiar – my friends and neighbours, my extended family, and my mother: the only constant factor in my life thus far.

With me were my clothes, certificates, and a couple of books that I couldn’t bear to part with. I don’t exactly recall taking my small tape recorder, but I must have. Because I remember sitting on a park bench in my Bombay neighbourhood and listening to Yesudas and Mohammad Rafi on the loop.

My train had reached Bombay thirteen hours late that time, which must’ve been symbolic. Of what, I still don’t know.

I did not know then that the trauma I was trying to escape had travelled with me – quietly, slyly, without showing itself. That it would lie low, waiting for the right time to pounce. It took me long years to learn that keeping the beast at bay is a struggle lived one moment at a time.

For the next two years I lived with my relatives – my aunt, uncle and cousins – in a single bedroom apartment partitioned further to accommodate the people who lived there. I lived with them, and partook of their space, meals, sometimes clothes, and almost always their generosity. We laughed together often, sang together on occasion – but if we cried, we did so separately, away from each other. I wept on a park bench, out of sight of prying eyes. Or in the solitude of the bathroom as I washed my clothes. I don’t know about the others.

Space is the most expensive thing in any big city, and more so in what is now Mumbai.  So I was grateful for the wooden bench in the kitchen which was often my bed. And for the occasional luxury of sleeping in the corner by the window, next to the dresser.

It took me two months to get the first job, and after that I changed so many jobs that I lost count. Receptionist, typist, sales assistant, accounts assistant, statistical assistant – you name it. A fresh graduate from remote South India couldn’t have been a chooser, you see. Especially when she was as needy as me. 

The one thing that kept me going, despite, was the small amount of money I was able to send home every month. I was, after all, fulfilling my divine duty – that of being my mother’s keeper.

Just when I thought advertising was going to be my chosen field of work, I landed the dream job – of being a clerk-typist in a nationalised bank. And there I was, finally getting to live my family’s dream!

***

Everything runs out, eventually. Space, water – even kindness, beyond a point.

Moving into a hostel was a relief, in a sense. But it also stretched my limited resources thinner. Breakfast and dinner came with the stay, though the former barely sufficed  to break the fast. The hostel also gave lunch on Sundays, but during the week, we had to arrange for our own. The lady who came to clean the rooms agreed to provide a modest lunch five days a week, plus a glass of milk in the mornings – we could pay her on a monthly basis. On Saturdays, we had to find some our source of lunch. Most of us from Kerala bought it from a Malayali family in the neighbourhood. For five rupees, they would give rice, curry and vegetable, and for those who wanted it, a piece of fish. 

As my own living expenses increased, so did the demands from home. So I made do with the clothes I had, begged off the outings my friends planned, and walked across Azad Maidan instead of taking the bus from VT to Churchgate. A ‘half-lassi’ under the Chembur railway bridge became a rare luxury, as did the bright orange oranges from Ratnagiri that sold for rupees two a piece. Eventually, I learned to make do with a cup of kadak chai and a banana on some of the Saturdays. 

Hunger became my companion. It gnawed at the pit of my stomach, constantly demanding attention. And with it came something else, something unexpected – the longing to go ‘home’. It would start of as a stray, fleeting memory, and then grow into something with tentacles which dug into my stomach. 

For some reason, whenever I was hungry, I longed for home. And whenever I was homesick, I felt starved. The two feelings fed off each other and grew as one. And when I fell ill, whenever I fell ill, it would wrap itself around me and choke me until I sobbed in pain.  

***

I’ve lived in many cities since. And each time, whenever the city loomed too big, bright and loud, I would long for the quiet shadows of home. Even when I knew that home was just an idea, a fragmented one that existed only in my head.  

Maybe there is a Pacific Salmon in all of us. A gleaming, writhing thing that compels us to go back in the end. Back to where we were spawned. Maybe that’s why we head back home on bare feet when fear and hunger hit us. Even when we know we may never reach. Maybe that’s also why railway tracks beckon us – because they show us the straightest route home. We walk on those tracks until we fall asleep on them, too exhausted to hear the speeding goods train that doesn’t give a damn. 

Because we long to reach home, regardless.

As for me, it took three years, a strong enough reason, and the support of some wonderful people – but I did board the train homeward that time. I had a second class upper berth that was mine for the trip, along with enough water, puris and fried bitter gourd that some kind friends had packed for me. I had a book with me which I was too exhausted to read, and kind co-passengers who woke me up dutifully at mealtimes. I did reach ‘home’ in the end. 

As you can see, I was/am one of the privileged. One of those who survived to tell the tale some three decades later. From home. Home.

Unlike so many others.

 

 

 

*Image via an article in Huffpost

Of Antihistamines, Divine Pursuits and a General Election

Yesterday was Tough – with a capital T. My right eye started itching suddenly the night before, and in a matter of minutes became a purplish blob with a red slit in the middle. When the itch extended to my throat, I swallowed an antihistamine, and that sealed my misery. Spent the night tossing and turning in a restless half sleep, and was unable to pick myself up from the bed most of yesterday. And I’m no pleasure to be around when I’m forced to be horizontal – ask my family.

But that too has passed.

This morning I got up as usual, and responded to Poocha’s call in kind. Took my walk, with music on shuffle on the way back. There were fewer people on the road for some reason. 

Hazaron khwahishen aisi… 

After so many months, it’s still with a sigh of relief that I breathe in the verdant evergreen by the porch, the mosaicked patch under the staircase, the few straggly plants in front of the door, and the living room with its yellow curtains. Yes. We have somehow managed to coax out ‘the home we want to live in’ (as my boys put it) from the ruins that had resulted from 14-years of neglect. And in the process, lived to learn that rebuilding a home out of its own dark shell is an act of love and hope.

I’m now treating our home ‘as a canvas’ as Adu advised me –  adding one brushstroke at a time.

I invariably water my plants as soon as I return – rather upsetting these days. They were all lush and happy until a couple of months ago, but since then have been morose and unresponsive. Nothing I do cheers them up enough to grow. (I’m beginning to believe that plants feel trauma – and that their cells hold the memory.) All I can do is to keep urging them, hoping that they will, one day, forget. And grow up. 

Innam konjam neram poruthaal thaan enna…

Amma’s usually in her room when I return, attending to her many gods. Her days are (and have been for as long as I can remember) devoted almost entirely to the pursuit of the divine: her version of it, rather. And after living most of her adult life in various states of aloneness, she doesn’t take very kindly to human interferences. Occasional short periods of social interactions are borne with patience, but any attempt to integrate her into sustained mainstream family life is an exercise in futility. So we live our parallel lives that meet mostly at the dining table thrice a day or so.

Could’ve been worse, I guess.

Lag jaa gale…

Made my first tea of the day, and came to my room. I have an interesting selection of infusions now – hibiscus, tulsi and chamomile, sage… But the bright green tea I chose today is special; it’s a gift from Ricca, and has come all the way from Japan. It has the flavour of the wonderful stories she used to share with me of her almost nomadic life as a young woman from sub-Siberian Japan. 

Twitter opened to a wonderful essay on Walking by Maria Papova, where she quoted Lauren Elkin. “Why do I walk? I walk because I like it. I like the rhythm of it, my shadow always a little ahead of me on the pavement. I like being able to stop when I like, to lean against a building and make a note in my journal, or read an email, or send a text message, and for the world to stop while I do it. Walking, paradoxically, allows for the possibility of stillness.”

Couldn’t have said it better.

Anuragini ithaa en…

The results of the general election are not a shock. But that doesn’t make me feel any less sad. I worry about what awaits our children, our academia, our minorities, our nation – our individual and collective worth as the citizens thereof.  The general mood on social media is either defensive or gleefully smug – an easy trap to fall into, I suppose. But it breaks my heart to see the young people I once taught use words like sickular, libtard and presstitute to talk about those with opposing points of view. 

Nothing is going to be the same again. 

As a kind friend pointed out, maybe people like me did contribute to what happened, merely by voicing our opinions on public platforms. I only hope I have the restraint necessary to not do so in the future.

Anyway, it’s time I stopped feeling sad – stopped feeling anything at all – and moved on with life. Or something like it. 

Zindagi tujh ko toh bus khab mein dekha hum ne…

For now, the kitchen awaits.

.

Of Cats, Flats and the Local Grocery Shop

It’s Day 6. No mean achievement, considering.

As usual, Poocha was right outside the door, returning home to eat, rest and recuperate after her nightly adventures. She mewed her knock, waited patiently for me to open the net door, waited less patiently for her bowl to be refilled, and greedily downed a few mouthfuls. Then she generously brushed herself against my shin, telling that I’m not too bad after all, after which she jumped on to a dining chair, stretched out and closed her eyes.

She lives the cat’s life!

There are a couple of fat tomcats in the neighbourhood who come to court her – a grim-looking grey one and a black and white one with one ear chewed off. Poocha is petite and looks quite the damsel in distress, so I understand why she runs inside screaming when they come anywhere near her. But that doesn’t stop her from flirting from within the safety of her home. When she sees or hears either of them, she walks quietly up to the glass door and stays there, watching them silently. The menfolk try their best to lure her out, but she wouldn’t budge. 

It must be the Monday morning ‘josh’, but I saw more people out on the road today than usual. Took the same route, saw the same sights with a slightly different pair of eyes, and smiled a few more smiles. At least three of the new faces I came across today stopped and asked me the familiar question: Flateennano?

The local population of Eroor tends to attribute any unfamiliar face to ‘The Flat’ – an alien spaceship that landed in their backyard twenty years ago and wouldn’t leave. But when I confirm their suspicion, they invariably nod and smile. I told you they smile more easily in this part of the world. 

I usually put on Devi Kavacham (a 15-minute long rendition) when I start walking, go on ahead till it ends, and then turn back – which makes sure I have at least a 30-minute walk to take credit for. It takes me past Appu’s old school, and up to a tea stall that has come up, I guess, for the benefit of students. But since it’s vacation, I see only a couple of local fisherfolk sipping tea.

On my way back, I listen to film songs or ghazals, put on shuffle.

Pularkala sundara swapnathil njaanoru… I usually wait to reach home before I start humming along loudly.  A grey-haired woman in exercise clothes, walking through the bylanes of Eroor needs to exhibit some kind of restraint – for propriety’s sake. 

Maybe it’s the fault of growing up in the villages, or all those years of living in the desert with its landscaped urban gardens, but I get all sentimental about the local flora of Eroor. There are so many trees and plants on the way that were an intrinsic part of my childhood, and some that still seem exotic to my Palakkadan sensibilities. 

Opposite the chapel, at the corner where the road turns, is a small grocery which is open even at 6 in the morning. You can find almost anything you need in the baskets or gunny bags scattered around, but you have to pay the one-man act his king’s ransom. When you have the monopoly of the grocery business this side of Kaniambuzha, you are going to name your price, I guess. 

Every morning, when I reach back, the elderly lady who lives alone (except for her home-nurse) in one of the apartments would be taking her slow morning walks. The click of her walking stick against the bricks on the pathway is a reassuring, welcoming sound, and she always gives me the most beautiful morning smile. On most days, though, I have to reintroduce myself to her failing memory.

This morning, she was standing in front of her door reading a newspaper as I walked past. I greeted her as usual, and she beckoned me over. I went to her and introduced myself again to her curious, bright eyes. She smiled her beatific smile, took my sweaty face in her hands, and kissed me on both cheeks. Then she went back to her newspaper, and I came back home. 

The day has begun. 

Of Road Once Taken and Other Things Like That

So I’ve resumed my (admittedly irregular) morning walks. They’d been put on hold since moving to Kochi, and I had a whole list of excuses for that. In fact, I’d almost convinced myself that it’s ok, you poor thing. 

1. The stress of moving, you see.

2. The stress of renovating the house – you understand that, right?

3. The stress of dealing with the summer heat in Kochi! *Roll eyes*

4. Oh, and what can I tell you about the stress of menopause? *Shake head* *Long sigh*

So on and so forth.

But my increasingly uncomfortable sari blouses and the terrible cramps that ravage my previously unacknowledged body parts are a warning I can no longer ignore. Sleep, that elusive entity who only flirts with me even on a good night, now seems ready to abandon me altogether. And believe me, that spells disaster. 

Truth be told, it’s not just my body that feels as if it’s turning into lead. There are times when I teeter on the brink of something black and wordless, and I can see an all-consuming numbness staring back at me from its depths. And I’m not going to give in to it. Not if I can help it. Not when I’m actually learning to live. 

So I need the walk. Because endorphins help. Serotonin helps. Whatever else gets released in the course of that walk helps.

Four days in a row now, and the sense of achievement I feel now is beyond words. 

The walk on Day 1, though, was a trip to hell.  An ineffectual night rain had raised the humidity level to ‘unbelievable’ and I was sweating profusely even before I stepped out of the gate. But the sight of the rain-drenched flowers on the wayside was a motivation to plod on. So I plodded on, taking photos on the way.

I took the same route that Sonya and I used to take in a distant past for our occasional walks. Turned left at the gate and followed the winding road until I reached the fork, and turned left again to follow the path that runs by the river. My mind kept wandering to those walks with Sonya, and the random stuff we used to talk about back then. Things like Phi and its significance in the world, or whether we would dye our hair when it turned grey. 

But everything has changed. Sonya herself is now in another city, though her still empty flat suggests that she will return someday. Phi, however, has long been forgotten; it has absolutely no significance in my world right now. And as for turning grey, I’ve chosen to let it. Why fight the inevitable?

The once unpaved road has been tarred, and quite recently, as is evident from the absence of potholes. So the walk now is meandering but smooth. The grassy wasteland that we used to walk past has been divided into plots with names and numbers, with many with largish, well-kept houses standing tall within. There’s even a low-rise apartment block at the far end, near the school where Appu used to study.

Someone told me recently that such flats are designed for families with school-going children. I’m sure.

The steel fabrication workshop at the corner, run by two Italian-looking brothers, is usually closed at that time of the morning. But going by the small board tacked to the rust-free shutters, it’s still functional,. The patch of land just outside, though, has been tiled and chained off, and sports a few stone benches. A red board says it’s now a ‘Senior Citizens’ Park’, but it’s usually a white Volkswagen GT that’s parked there in the mornings, staring morosely at the river. 

The senior citizens, whenever they park themselves on the benches, might not have much in terms of space, but they do have a stunning river view as the background for their inevitable reminiscences.

New paths run like capillaries off the arterial road which is just wide enough for one largish car to squeeze through. They connect houses and housing plots, often reaching a dead end by the side of one. Another board, a white one this time, proclaims that a residents’ association is now in place. Good for them.

The Eroor West post office, which used to be a shanty halfway to the school, has moved to a small house closer to our apartment. A couple of new temples have sprouted on the way, along with a chapel at the corner of the road near our building. A testimony, I suppose, to the rising religious fervour.  

The ‘short cut’ I used to take to drop off Appu at school has become unrecognisable. It took me a second to register the once-muddy turn-off where my silver Sunny had skidded, taking down with it the three of us – Appu in his school uniform, and little Adu in his ‘kangaroo’ pouch, belted to my chest.

The whole area has been cemented, and leads to a narrow concrete path flanked by concrete walls, some with flowers spilling over. The canal that used to run by the side has disappeared under thick concrete slabs.

In this part of Eroor, concrete is king. 

Back then, when it was still muddy, that path used to run through a large piece of wetland. An entire ecosystem had thrived there under a thick canopy of trees, and we had to jump across a small, clear stream in which fish and ducks swam. Snakes, chameleons and other reptiles used to move casually about, completely dismissive of the few human beings who crossed their path. What they did take heed of were the mongooses who had the run of the place.

It was a different world back then – a brownish-green world of perpetual twilight. A  sublime world whose silence used to reverberate with the shrill of a million unseen creatures.

A memory now. Walled in, weeded out. Easier to walk across, but heartbreaking.

That patch of earth had ignited Appu’s imagination no end, I remember. And much later, he brought it back to life in his first college project – as an animation video titled ‘Way Home’. 

The other day, as I was about to get into an autorickshaw, a heavily pregnant young woman hurried across and asked me if I remembered her. It took me a minute, but I did. She and her mother were among the people who had helped us up from the red earth where we had fallen down. Later, but in that same life of mine, I had made dresses for her adolescent self. 

She told me that she almost didn’t know me either, but then she saw me smile. I’d recognise that smile anywhere, she said, smiling.

Made my day. 

Her little one has come out now, I think. I saw a line of nappies hanging by their porch.

Not many people are out at that time of the morning, apart from the few who would be heading towards Chambakkara on their two-wheelers. Sometimes I see a woman or two in housecoats, doing things that women do at that time of the morning: sweep the yard, water the plants, wash the vessels… Some of them seem familiar, and I try to chip away the decade and a half from their faces to see if I can place them. Sometimes I can.

People smile so much more easily in this part of the world.

On the first morning, there was an elderly man standing in front of his house and brushing his teeth. He was still brushing when I came back. His must be whitest teeth in Eroor. 

I return home each morning feeling as if my body is being slow cooked. My clothes would be drenched in sweat, and my misted-over glasses would have slipped off my nose. And I don’t even want to know how I smell. Yet, the sense of well-being I feel makes it worth all of that and more. It’s fascinating how the world becomes so much more liveable after a walk and a bath!

Life has taught me to be wary of myself. I lost count of the number of times I had decided to adopt a healthy routine, only to feel my engines grind to a halt in a matter of days. Today is all about good intentions and general well-being; who knows about tomorrow?

But then, that’s life. To be taken one day at a time. 

Of Diaper Pins, Rubber Bands, and an Old Man on the Metro

We were on the Singapore Metro (or the ‘MRT’, as Amy calls it), though I can’t recall where we were going to, nor the name of the station we were to get down at. The train was quite crowded, so we stood to one side of the door.

He was standing near us – an old man, leaning against a pole grip. His back was to the crowd, and he was swaying gently with the train. I don’t know what it was about him that caught my attention because his focus was firmly fixed elsewhere, below eye-level.

I found myself glancing at him every so often. 

An unusually large pair of eyes revealed themselves suddenly to survey the compartment and just as quickly went back under the heavy eyelids they came out of. I was reminded of Ollie, a tortoise we had with us for a while in Dubai. He would draw himself into his shell when he went to sleep. But every so often he would raise his head from his shell, look around, and pull it back in again. 

When the old man raised his head again to look out of the window opposite, I noticed a chain of red rubber bands circling his bald head. It took me a moment to realise that its purpose was not decorative – it was holding in place his rather thick, misshapen eyeglasses that might otherwise have slid down his nose. 

He seemed to be chewing at something, and a single loose tooth emerged from the confines of his cavernous mouth every so often and retreated as quietly as it appeared.

I could not help but stare. Our eyes met suddenly and he turned away, decidedly ignoring me and every other person on the train.

Rather embarrassed, I was about to look away when I noticed that the well-worn, dirty salmon-pink T-shirt he was wearing was sporting a neat row of half-a-dozen diaper pins at the chest where a pocket would have been.  More diaper pins were fixed to the pocket flap of his shabby olive cargo shorts, and next to them, a wristwatch hung from a string that disappeared into the hem of his Tee.

Thin legs ended in a pair of loose grey socks and olive sneakers that looked as if they would give up their ghost any moment. Two heavy-looking cloth bags lay on the floor by his feet, still and alert like obedient dogs. 

Try as I might, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. His, however, were fixed on something else by then. 

I watched him open a few sheets of folded paper that he had been holding in his hand – a few loose leaves pulled out of a ruled notebook. He started working on them furiously with a red pen. 

I forgot that it was rude to stare.

A red arc appeared on the paper, which soon became a head in the old Chinese style, with long hair on either side and a sparse, long beard at the chin. Small eyes, small mouth…

He paused, lifted his huge eyes, gave the surroundings a once-over. Finding nothing to hold his interest, he went back to his paper and began to draw lines around the head, like the rays of the sun. No – like the lines we used to draw in anatomy class to label body parts.

It turned that he was indeed labeling something around the head in a language that looked like Chinese. 

That done to his satisfaction, he paused, looked around for a long time, changed pages and started with the pen again. Soon the paper burst out in a bloom of red doodles that looked like small clouds interspersed with jottings in shorthand script – something that called for furrowed brows and unblinking concentration. 

After a while, his pauses became longer and more frequent, but he hardly bothered to look up. Soon he was sleeping – eyes closed, mouth slightly open, still holding the paper and the pen tightly, still swaying gently, but never once losing his balance. At times he would come back to the world with a jerk, quickly jot some things down, and then fall back asleep. The bags at his feet stood guard. 

When the train pulled into the terminus, he woke up as if to an alarm, gathered his evidently heavy bags, and got down before us – tall, thin and ageless, staggering under the weight of his bags.  No one offered help, and somehow it didn’t seem as if he would’ve accepted any. 

I looked around for him one last time before getting into the lift.

He was still there on the platform, just next to the door through which he got down. Leaning against the wall of the stationary train as if he couldn’t keep himself steady on terra firma. His bags waited next to him patiently.

I don’t know why, but I still think of him sometimes. A shabby old man lost in a world of his own making. Held together by diaper pins, rubber bands, and handwritten notes. Swaying gently to the rhythm of the train.

And I wonder.

***

*Illustration: Aditya Shivakumar Menon, aka Son 2, who is extremely dissatisfied with his work. 

Lest I Forget

Memories from the far end of Bombay riots

I’ve managed to erase most of the memories of the days around December 6, 1992. A few fragments, however, remain stuck to my consciousness like a stain, and wouldn’t go away however much I try to wash them off. I was one of the luckier ones, of course – I was at the far end of the pool, where the ripples came only to subside. Thus the privilege of ‘forgetting’. I’m aware.

I was working in State Bank of India, Churchgate Branch, and less than four months pregnant at the time.

I remember that I was coming back from somewhere, though I’m not sure where. The train I was on was largely empty, but had stopped in the middle of nowhere. No one seemed to know why, though there was a general sense of disquiet in the air that the demolition of a mosque in Ayodha had caused. But at the time it seemed far away. And despite rumours of repercussions closer home, fear had not struck. At least, not me, not yet.

A good half an hour or so later, someone who scrambled up the train said there was dangafasad going on ahead, and that was the reason the train had stopped. After that, the train, with all of us inside it, was eerily silent.

Relief came as a long whistle, and there was a general buzz among us, commuters.  Just as the train was about to move, a heavily pregnant woman struggled up the steps sweating and panting. A few people rushed to help her. She flopped down on a window seat, still sweating profusely and sobbing all the while. She was trying to say something, but was mostly incoherent. The only words we could make out were: “They had swords!”

When she recovered enough to talk, she said that she had run away to escape a mob – they were not coming at her, but. They had bloodied swords and torches, though, and someone told her that a woman, similarly pregnant, had her stomach cut open.

I can’t recall the rest of the trip. Except that the heavy window pane fell on the lady’s hand and she started crying again. 

What I remember of the rest of those days are the random discussions that used to happen.  At work, in the train, among colleagues… On how if you were passing by this road, it is safer to wear a bindi. But if you were taking the other, your bindi could get you killed. About how a Hindu colony protected a Muslim family, or how a Muslim family that kept their Hindu friend and his family safe in their house…

Things like that. 

That was the time I learned that one’s name and surname could become something that saved or destroyed, depending. The first time I became aware of religion, in a way I had never been.

***

I was in Bombay on March 12, 1993, as well. And again, what I remember are the most frivolous details of the day. Like the extra-large white and blue dress I was wearing because that was the most comfortable one for my extra-large stomach. And how I was sweating excessively and feeling slightly sick as I walked from Second Road to Chembur Station, but would not take leave. Because it meant one less day at home for my delivery, back in Coimbatore. 

At the station, I began to feel dizzy. Two women from Adelphi – my personal banking customers – held me up and sat me down. They told me it was better that I went back home as I did not look well enough to get through the day. They put me in an autorickshaw and left.

When the call came for me in the afternoon, I thought it was to inquire after my health, or to say that they missed me at lunchtime. But the voice at the other end was hushed. “I’m glad you took leave, Mini. There has been a bomb blast at the Stock Exchange. We felt it in our PB department (which was in the basement).”

It took a while for the news to sink in, as it did for everything that happened afterwards.

I remember the warnings that were being repeatedly heard on railway stations, trains and BEST buses. Please make sure that there is no unclaimed baggage left under your seats or above you. If you do find anything suspicious, inform the authorities immediately. Do not touch or go near it… Announcements to that effect. BEST buses went the extra mile – they started playing old songs, which would be punctuated every so often by such announcements.

To this day, each time I happen to hear the song tum agar saath dene ka wada karo, my heart skips a beat. And my stomach tightens in anticipation of the abrupt pause after main tumhe dekhkar geet gaata rahoon… And I almost wait for the voice that would tell me to check under my seat.

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My scars, however, are thin. Barely visible, considering. I’m aware of that.

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And yet, one has to remember. Always. 

 

 

*PC: Google images.

An Old Facebook Post, Revamped!

The original post came up as a two-year-old memory on Facebook. These two years have brought so many things to a head, but the sentiments expressed there remain the same. So do most of the attitudes that provoked this outburst, sadly.

So sharing it again here, with just minor changes. (I’m not prone to writing long posts on the Facebook wall, but the situation calls for it.)
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But before that, here’s something that I’ve been itching to say despite having taken the decision to stay off politics for a couple of months, for the sake of sanity:
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#Metoo is NOT funny. Don’t circulate jokes and memes on it. It is decades and centuries of pain, shame and misplaced guilt coming out in torrents. And if you are a man who asks ‘How do I qualify for #metoo?’ (This is not made up – someone actually did!), don’t worry – you most likely are, and have been for a long time. At least in intent.

And fellow women, please don’t think that taking years to speak up is a sign of weakness. It’s not. To retaliate on the spot does take courage – but so does speaking up after ages. Even more courage because they would need to deal with not just the abuser, the world, but also the likes of you who ask things like ‘Why didn’t you slap him and walk away?’

(I actually saw women sharing a post to the effect that if you are a real woman, a ‘shakti’, you do that! I can only say you, who said that and who share that with the same intent, are supremely privileged. And supremely insensitive.)

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Now, to my original post:
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Women have bodies, just as men do. And our bodies are different from those of men – with good reason. The species has lasted solely because of that.

Some of us are proud of our bodies, and why not?

Skirts fly, saris slip off, blouses open – whether we like it or not. We scratch our backsides, dig our noses and drool while sleeping. I’m sure the rest of the world does these things too.

This might be news to some, but these are very human acts. Every constitution has (or ought to have) these as part of the fundamental rights of its citizens.

Sometimes skin shows, and that’s ok too. It’s skin, not dirty laundry.

So stop taking photos of people in their vulnerable moments and circulating them in your groups. It’s as crass as hiding behind the doors of someone’s bathroom or bedroom and watching them. And infinitely worse for the damage it does.

That woman whose photo you’re sharing, with crude remarks textboxed into it, is a human being, entitled to live her life with dignity, unaffected by filthy camera eyes.

Beauty, they say, is in the eye of the beholder. Remember, so is vulgarity.

Even if you don’t actively promote such posts, stop laughing at them, stop accepting them. Somebody could catch you and me too in the wrong frame.

For, the camera, like the bullet, does not discriminate. Nor does the Internet.
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Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for your patience.

Fish Whisperers of Varanasi

At Varanasi, they whisper to the fish and set them free in the water. 

I’d come to the Ghats to watch the sunrise, an event that was turning out to be more spectacular than I had imagined. Ahead of me, the sun spilled molten gold onto the calm waters of the Ganga. Majhis (boatmen) were ferrying passengers across in similar-looking rowboats, their silhouettes adding to the drama. A million seagulls circled above the boats, their squawks accompanying the sound of temple bells and the chants of worshippers performing pooja on the stone steps. Men and women were bathing in the holy waters, their faith shielding them from the biting cold of a winter morning. Wash away our sins, mother…

From the high octagonal stone platform I was sitting on, everything seemed surreal.

A while ago, I had bid goodbye to Pooja, a young engineer from Poona who was sharing the platform with me. She had come to the ghats with her brother and sister-in-law, and was kind enough to click a picture of me for memory. We had found each other on Instagram, and parted with vague promises to keep in touch.  

I sat there alone for a long time afterward, at peace with the world that was bustling around me. 

As I got up to leave, I saw a couple of Muslim men – father and son, presumably – carrying transparent yellow plastic bags, making their way to where I was sitting.  I noticed that the bags held water, with small, black, live fish in them. I stopped in my tracks.

“Are those fish?” The father ignored me. Talk about stating the obvious. 

The son nodded.

“What are they for?”

“To be released in the Ganga,” he mumbled without looking at me.

“To be…what! Why?”

“Why? Because…” He looked at his father, but the old man did not help. Then he turned and met my eyes. “...where else do fish belong except with Ganga Maiyya?”

Where else indeed. 

I followed them as they went to the edge of the platform, asking their permission to click pictures. The son looked at his father again. Though the old man decidedly turned his back on me, the son did not seem to mind. I decided to take their silence for consent, but maintained an unobtrusive distance. 

They sat down and carefully opened the bags. The older man took each bag separately, brought it close to his face and blew softly into it. Then both the father and the son gently took the fish one by one in their palms and dropped it into the water. That done, they got up and left.

No one gave a second glance. Except me, that is. 

Later, I came to know that this is a sadka, a ritual performed by the members of the weaving community regardless of their faith. Meant to ward off evil, to protect their person and property.

Protect us, mother, protect our livelihood. You, who are all-accepting, all-forgiving. You who do not distinguish between humans and their faiths.  Guard us against evil, Mother. Within and without…

A prayer or two, breathed into the slim, dark bodies of a dozen fishes. To be carried to the heart of a mighty river brimming with the desperate pleas of generations and lifetimes. Of the living and the dying, the hopeful and the hopeless.

Down there in her womb, these prayers too would feed on human sins and grow. As guardians, protectors. Shielding mortals from themselves… 

Perhaps.