“He hugged her and cried, with the sweetest smile,” said Avinash, describing the man’s wilting health. On the hospital bed, he described the man’s searching eyes were as restless as a baby’s. This was when friends and family around him were heaving with fear, trying hard to smile, not giving away the frustration in their faces after months of tiring, uncertain nights.
The man is his grandfather, fondly known as bhaiji, and the girl - bhaiji’s grand daughter. When people have tales to tell about their grandparents, I feel quite lost. Do I have grand parents? - of course. Am I lucky that I have them? – I think so. Do I have memories I’d like to remember, with them? – this will take some time to dig into. Proud moments, happy moments, loved moments? – still thinking…
Without touching my maternal side, describing the grand parents who were physically close to me – they never quite considered me to be part of the kin. An outspoken, back-answering wench, who never got the point. Most astonishingly, a girl who never got the bigger point that “Men will always be up in the sky, when women are grounded on Earth for life.”
“No,” she’d say. “Which century are these thoughts from? Women are just as high ‘up in the sky’ as men. Why the difference?”
She could never understand the biggest truth of life. Such a difficult child. And a girl child at that.
They abandoned all hopes of making anything out of this girl. Happy with the other grandchildren and their adherence to the golden rule, the girl was more of an outcast. I remember being left with nothing to contribute when friends sat in a circle during lunch breaks, discussing their happiness at having grandparents over during weekends. In my desperation, in the 6th grade I studied all night just to take a good report card back to appuppa. To see some pride in his face. All he said was, “3rd rank? Try to top the next time.”
Nope. It evidently didn’t work.
I don’t think I have hugged appuppa ever. But I yearned to be loved by him. I wanted him to think highly of me, knowing very well that he wouldn’t. Despite that, I still love him.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Best friend?!
Past 3.00 AM. I’m in the middle of a half-yawn, but I know the journey to dreamland will take me a while. Ponder time.
Last week, a friend introduced her friend to me as her first best friend ever. Met around kindergarten days and stuck on to be friends, she said (It is a blessing if one can make such claims. You hardly stay the same with your first best friend throughout. In fact, you hardly remember the person you gave that honour to, mostly). I thought for the name of that first best friend of mine- Hannah Thomas- 1st STD, Choice School. I remember sharing a table with her, fighting for an eraser that was never lost. Waiting for ‘free periods’ so that we could get into our illusionary office, where stenographers (Hannah and I) typed with upturned 15 cm- measurement scales (for the appropriate sound, as our little fingers tapped on each imagined letter). Trying our own strategies, individually, to be the ‘preferred one’ of the class bully- always in competition with each other. Sharing water (sometimes) but never sharing lunch (chocolate wafers and creamy cakes were never spared, so we ate it in hiding). Being a proud owner of ‘foreign’ colour pencils and cussing and bawling when she broke it. Playing ring-a-ring-o’roses, falling at “...we all fall down,” and breaking my front tooth (the one dad warned me would make or break my ‘developing’ beauty [3rd STD by now]), and remaining in utter shock to even cry for the remaining part of the day.
Came 4th standard. With new class came new faces. The brutal axe of class-shuffle had fallen on us. The next conversation was on the school bus. The content I hardly remember, but she was definitely not my best friend then. Asha, I think was the next on the list. Or was it Indu? Not sure.
Last week, a friend introduced her friend to me as her first best friend ever. Met around kindergarten days and stuck on to be friends, she said (It is a blessing if one can make such claims. You hardly stay the same with your first best friend throughout. In fact, you hardly remember the person you gave that honour to, mostly). I thought for the name of that first best friend of mine- Hannah Thomas- 1st STD, Choice School. I remember sharing a table with her, fighting for an eraser that was never lost. Waiting for ‘free periods’ so that we could get into our illusionary office, where stenographers (Hannah and I) typed with upturned 15 cm- measurement scales (for the appropriate sound, as our little fingers tapped on each imagined letter). Trying our own strategies, individually, to be the ‘preferred one’ of the class bully- always in competition with each other. Sharing water (sometimes) but never sharing lunch (chocolate wafers and creamy cakes were never spared, so we ate it in hiding). Being a proud owner of ‘foreign’ colour pencils and cussing and bawling when she broke it. Playing ring-a-ring-o’roses, falling at “...we all fall down,” and breaking my front tooth (the one dad warned me would make or break my ‘developing’ beauty [3rd STD by now]), and remaining in utter shock to even cry for the remaining part of the day.
Came 4th standard. With new class came new faces. The brutal axe of class-shuffle had fallen on us. The next conversation was on the school bus. The content I hardly remember, but she was definitely not my best friend then. Asha, I think was the next on the list. Or was it Indu? Not sure.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Who cries down the memory lane?
A friend was telling me about his first psychology session in his first month of MBA, over coffee. He mentioned that the teacher kindled the class by asking them to shut their eyes and recount their earliest memory from childhood. I was thinking hard while my friend continued to tell me that she said it had to be a painful one. The psychology professor stated that the first feeling of pain is the stickiest memory that you would later recount with a pinch. I strained to think of my earliest memory. Flashes raced through my head. Vick and I playing pitch-a-tent with blankets and cloth clips; Mom and dad going for walks in the evenings leaving us home alone; Vick forcing me to taste the leg of a cockroach; Pinky defecating in the playground and S (?) and I running back home alone throwing up all the way; Singing “M-O-T-H-E-R Mother, F-A-T-H-E-R Father” for annual KG Day; Vick lifting me up by the stomach with his legs lying down in a sketchy attempt at imitating superman; Slipping and hurting my head during one of the most memorable parties in Bombay; poking mom awake from her afternoon siesta to make me sandwiches so that the ‘didis’ would let me play ‘picnic’ with them in the front door playground…
None of this really hurts. All are fond memories. I have been a pampered child- yes. But I have had my share of bad bashings. The fact that my mind does not recollect them makes me realize that I’m quite a sunshine-even-at-night person. Good for me.
None of this really hurts. All are fond memories. I have been a pampered child- yes. But I have had my share of bad bashings. The fact that my mind does not recollect them makes me realize that I’m quite a sunshine-even-at-night person. Good for me.
Friday, July 23, 2010
And that's what you call a successful blog!
You love it when your blog is read, but you absolutely adore it when you know it has hit the spot.
I got a reactionary status update on my previous blog:
“You weren't a loyal one either, you did it too and so many times...shared the same space, spoke only to bitch about others and spoke to me to bitch about each other...and she did the same...I knew it all...and today when I see the two of you bonding, I just can't help but laugh my heart out! Ignorance might be a bliss, but non-ignorance is more fun! Get a life bitch.”
I would love my ‘best’ friend to comment on this. We have bitched about each other? Well even if we did at least we made sure we told each other about it before moving on. At least our friendship is tickling someone .
The guilt comes out in a million different ways. Good riddance to bad rubbish.
Last one on this.
I got a reactionary status update on my previous blog:
“You weren't a loyal one either, you did it too and so many times...shared the same space, spoke only to bitch about others and spoke to me to bitch about each other...and she did the same...I knew it all...and today when I see the two of you bonding, I just can't help but laugh my heart out! Ignorance might be a bliss, but non-ignorance is more fun! Get a life bitch.”
I would love my ‘best’ friend to comment on this. We have bitched about each other? Well even if we did at least we made sure we told each other about it before moving on. At least our friendship is tickling someone .
The guilt comes out in a million different ways. Good riddance to bad rubbish.
Last one on this.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Bitch list!
I have had great friends among ones of the fairer sex, and surprisingly I have had the worst experiences with them as well. I should admit some of them were highly entertaining, and I hardly regret any of them. It is fun to jot them down. The posts are getting redundant with lists coming in after lists. When I have the time to pen down my next post, I hope I would get to write longer stories of interest.
Levels of stupidity witnessed among women (Last one takes the cake):
1. Women who are forever jealous, and hence always have a reason to crib
2. Women who like to presume/ assume that they are god-sent (in terms of intelligence, hotness, beauty)
3. Women who do not have an opinion for themselves
4. Women who blindly believe their boyfriends and refuse to believe anyone but them
5. Women who bitch in the most non-discreet manner
6. Women who think they can get away with anything by assuming the role of straightforward women, when in reality are nothing but fake
7. Women who resort to juvenile desperations to show their annoyance
8. Women who act like they are best friends, but are nothing but the leaking vent of secrets
9. Women who claim to be loyal while carrying hearts blackened with guilt
This one’s the best…
10. Women who snoop around mailboxes of ‘best friends’ just to confirm their guilt
Levels of stupidity witnessed among women (Last one takes the cake):
1. Women who are forever jealous, and hence always have a reason to crib
2. Women who like to presume/ assume that they are god-sent (in terms of intelligence, hotness, beauty)
3. Women who do not have an opinion for themselves
4. Women who blindly believe their boyfriends and refuse to believe anyone but them
5. Women who bitch in the most non-discreet manner
6. Women who think they can get away with anything by assuming the role of straightforward women, when in reality are nothing but fake
7. Women who resort to juvenile desperations to show their annoyance
8. Women who act like they are best friends, but are nothing but the leaking vent of secrets
9. Women who claim to be loyal while carrying hearts blackened with guilt
This one’s the best…
10. Women who snoop around mailboxes of ‘best friends’ just to confirm their guilt
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
List- 2
Some things that make me smile on a dull day
1. Old Malayalam music
2. ting-a-ling of the chime against the wind
3. Warmth of my worn-out blanket
4. A Wodehouse (because nothing bad ever happens in a Wodehouse land)
5. Smell of fresh coffee from the kitchen
6. Smell of crayons
7. Feel of shampooed hair
8. Sound of a message in the Phone
9. Old photographs
10. Cold water on warm skin
11. Smell of fresh Kajal
12. Crushed ice in lemonade
13. Single beam of sunlight falling on the bed
14. Laundered linen
15. Mom :)
Most of my friends would say I missed the most important one- food. It was conscious.
1. Old Malayalam music
2. ting-a-ling of the chime against the wind
3. Warmth of my worn-out blanket
4. A Wodehouse (because nothing bad ever happens in a Wodehouse land)
5. Smell of fresh coffee from the kitchen
6. Smell of crayons
7. Feel of shampooed hair
8. Sound of a message in the Phone
9. Old photographs
10. Cold water on warm skin
11. Smell of fresh Kajal
12. Crushed ice in lemonade
13. Single beam of sunlight falling on the bed
14. Laundered linen
15. Mom :)
Most of my friends would say I missed the most important one- food. It was conscious.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Someday a year ago, I got a call from my friend Ans asking me if I could help her friend with a short story. “The topic is- The man by the lake,” she said tensely. “You have to help,” she insisted, “It is for a friend and she said she can not think of anything to write!”
Firstly I could not see any logic in asking a student pursuing her MBA to write a short story. “What an oxymoron!” I thought.
Next, I was thinking out aloud, “What kind of a topic is this?!”
I still thought I should help and pen down a few words. For the next 30 minutes I was drowning myself in a weird array of thoughts. I did not realize that I was getting carried away by some strange wind of imagination. I pounded on the keyboard like it was an assignment with a deadline. When I thought I was sufficiently satisfied with the introduction, I re-read and realized this was a little too psychologically-inclined for an MBA grad. I raised my doubt with Ans and buzzed her online, “err… is it ok if it is a little…say… psychological sorts?”
“Relax with the heavy words. Jus send the draft of the intro across and we’ll tell you,” she said chirpily.
I sent it. It took them a while but she replied on the online chat. “:( no Vinaya. We can’t take this!”
Ans’ friend wrote that story on her own and passed the assignment (I presume).
I still feel bad about this story that hangs by its intro and is yet to be completed.
“It was the kind of evening I had dreaded since my return to my ancestral cottage at Wellington – chilly, dark and pregnant with the strong stench of death. I would have stayed back in the less dreary cottage if it was not for her promise. We had not met in a year and I was surprised to find a note awaiting me at the backdoor in the morning. It said “Wait by the lake”. No initial was needed. I could discern that handwriting in the darkest hour of the day. It was Alice.
Alice and I never loved each other. We could not look at each other and not feel a strange sense of hatred brimming over. We were never friends. But when I lost my family in a burn-out, the only person I cried to, was her. Alice knows my pains more than my own self and that is why I hate her. I hate her for knowing me so well. I hate to look at her when I am in pain, for when I do, I feel like my eyes had been yearning to tell her my darkest secrets all this while. It felt like the minute our eyes locked in contact, they would pour out to her what she needed to know.”
Firstly I could not see any logic in asking a student pursuing her MBA to write a short story. “What an oxymoron!” I thought.
Next, I was thinking out aloud, “What kind of a topic is this?!”
I still thought I should help and pen down a few words. For the next 30 minutes I was drowning myself in a weird array of thoughts. I did not realize that I was getting carried away by some strange wind of imagination. I pounded on the keyboard like it was an assignment with a deadline. When I thought I was sufficiently satisfied with the introduction, I re-read and realized this was a little too psychologically-inclined for an MBA grad. I raised my doubt with Ans and buzzed her online, “err… is it ok if it is a little…say… psychological sorts?”
“Relax with the heavy words. Jus send the draft of the intro across and we’ll tell you,” she said chirpily.
I sent it. It took them a while but she replied on the online chat. “:( no Vinaya. We can’t take this!”
Ans’ friend wrote that story on her own and passed the assignment (I presume).
I still feel bad about this story that hangs by its intro and is yet to be completed.
“It was the kind of evening I had dreaded since my return to my ancestral cottage at Wellington – chilly, dark and pregnant with the strong stench of death. I would have stayed back in the less dreary cottage if it was not for her promise. We had not met in a year and I was surprised to find a note awaiting me at the backdoor in the morning. It said “Wait by the lake”. No initial was needed. I could discern that handwriting in the darkest hour of the day. It was Alice.
Alice and I never loved each other. We could not look at each other and not feel a strange sense of hatred brimming over. We were never friends. But when I lost my family in a burn-out, the only person I cried to, was her. Alice knows my pains more than my own self and that is why I hate her. I hate her for knowing me so well. I hate to look at her when I am in pain, for when I do, I feel like my eyes had been yearning to tell her my darkest secrets all this while. It felt like the minute our eyes locked in contact, they would pour out to her what she needed to know.”
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