Sammu

Today, I am half-immersed in what I call pseudo-existential thoughts along with project templates and budgeting issue at work. Quite a spark-free combination – like oil and water. One of the fringe benefits of growing up as an Army man’s daughter was that I was the only kid in my class to receive real postal letters and postcards, apart from those that we were compelled to do as part of home assignments.

 I remember how my father had a God-like influence in my life. Bedtime prayers always ended with a thank you to him. All the values were developed through remote access via these letters. Even today, his mails are no different, except for them being electronic. The underlying thought is always: “Good job! But I am sure you can always be a better person”. There is no pleasing him.

“Sammu, you don’t always have to be so hard on yourself,” mom would insist. She would see me burning out the batteries of emergency lamps during regular power outages, struggling to keep up with exams, studies and a fierce battle for the first rank. I was always competing - not just with others, but with myself. Seldom ever happy with the result.

I would walk down the corridor decked with the most popular students, and almost hear their screaming thoughts - “Sammu is such a bore. Underdog. Underachiever.”

Those were the days I would go home and take slow breast strokes in the ocean of self-pity.   

Confessions after so long

There was a time when I felt sin free and then there is now.

It was also the first time I put my head on a friend’s shoulder, it was awkward, but it felt right. The memory feels very remote and near at the same time. 

A trip to the orphanage from school. Like a bunch of elitist babies, we were warned by teachers to take care of our belongings. I don’t remember the purpose of this visit. Did we do the ritual dance and song routine as our yearly Christmas act of kindness? Or did we pack up our old better-kept linen for the kids? More importantly, did we interact with them at all? 

I remember watching them from outside the gate, the bars of which were clutched tightly by tiny hands with curious eyes from inside. We didn’t understand why those gates never opened. From a distance, my friend and I shared our neatly packed tiffins from home, as these kids watched on. I remember feeling aloof and apathetic. I remember not being interested in talking to them, even with the grilled gate in between us. I remember acting baffled at their advances to talk in Malayalam. I remember running, falling and hurting my knee a few feet farther from the gate. I remember the curiosity in their eyes turning into worry and anxiety as I fell. I remember getting up flushed - not with the pain of the fall, but with the shame on my indifference. 

On the ride back on bus no. 8 and 18 years hence, I have considered that my first sin in discretion. 

The one where a simple sorry could not find its way to my lips. 

Do you have a story for me?

I have always found it hard to romanticize (well, at least intentionally!). Hence I am always fascinated by people sketching long poems on love, composing catchy music on life, stringing epics on beauty. It is amazing how it doesn't wear people out! I mean, far from it, people always yearn for more of this stuff. So, it is not surprising that I am now trying to find a connection between a queer tendency I have discovered in myself recently, and my apparent lack of imagination.

During my wee reading days, I was often attacked by what a few book-lovers had coined - a page-sixteen-syndrome. It simply means that the book you are holding is not going to take your mind through the fantastic journey it promised, beyond page number 16. This is because the journey it is currently taking you on is unbearable for that poor mind of yours. You need a halt and page 16 is the pseudonym. As a reader much in the green, trying to discover my comfort genre, I figured I would have to wade through a pool of seemingly boring books to thresh a few that would suit my taste.

Now the recent queer tendency that I had made a mention of earlier has to do with this page 16 syndrome. What had been a curious phenomenon witnessed during what we can call a book-reader’s puberty, has now started growing on me. I somehow cannot keep my mind to set sail and embark on the journey any book wants to take me on. I took a count of the books I had handled in the past one year and realized I had attempted 15 books, of which I may have reached page 200 of the highest scorer, the rest being discarded at an insignificant page number. Either my taste is evolving / maturing/ going through another book-reader’s puberty, or my mind is plain bored with the same dish offered in different plates! Mind you, I do not want to be misunderstood when I say same dish (I do believe no two books are the same).

What I actually mean is that I need someone to write me a magical book.

Someone to tell me it is ok to not embed a love story in a crime plot, it is equally beautiful to not sing songs about the nature, it is alright that the protagonist is dull, dim, distasteful, and one who hardly fulfils the definition of a contemporary hero, and it is lyrical to hear the punch line without the chaff. That way it will make me believe that a book can be written on you and me, our mothers and anybody. That way I know that everybody has a story to tell – some simple and some lavish. 

When he whispers sweet nothings

Every night when I put myself to sleep, I hold on to a book to help me glide through the purgatory - that is a miserable half-daze - and make my journey into the sweat heaven called dreamland smooth. Something like the last piece of reality I want to be in touch with before I shut my eyes to the world and let an unknown force take over.

Between those few moments of half-daze and deep sleep, there is this one short stretch of time where I feel enveloped by multiple thoughts all at once. More like a man whispering unrelated tit bits into my ear – strangely at the same time- but in different tones and from different locations. Picture this. You are on ground zero and you want to get to the top floor. You take the elevator. The elevator is mirror-walled on three sides. You have a co-passenger with you. You see infinite images of him on the mirror opposite. Each image telling you something different; each image showing you something distinct.  Such is the stretch before deep sleep.

Last night I pictured these sweet nothings: A Russian matryoshka doll; a girl of four with small, beady eyes, straight hair and a long skirt – she laughs every time you turn your head away from her and successfully draws your attention;  a long piece of cloth in cream with a red border; some pieces of shattered glass found on a school playground – little girls hovering around to collect the pretty shapeless pieces to play with them later; a wooden dragon on the shelf; a content Buddha head on a plain white wall... A view of the endless ocean from a ship’s cabin – an urgent feeling of “will there be land in sight soon?” ...

A few more thoughts before I am fast asleep.

Image courtesy: goodbooksforyoungsouls.blogspot

Where did my nights go?

I forget what a Starry Starry Night (Courtesy: Van Gogh) looks like. I remember climbing up to my terrace as a child, lying on my back and trying to read the hidden stories behind those constellations using a keychain telescope. I don’t look at the stars anymore and I have been seeing the morning moon for years now.

Some things I have missed all these nights

• Night star gaze
• stomach grumble
• Bedtime prayers
• Goodnight calls
• Mom’s rhythmic pat – pat on the back
• Dad’s slow breathing from the bed nearby
• Which invariably led to a mother’s womb security
• That hand that I could always hold when I wake up to a nightmare
• The happiness that the unforeseen gush of wind (ushered in by the light curtains) brought in
• Bedtime stories
• That book meant to be read at bedtime, but will never reach the second page

Those were the nights ! 

When you look back

Think about it. When you first came into the world – much like Adam and Eve – you knew no shame or guilt. Muscles worked themselves to form what is popularly known as a ‘smile’ when you were happy and they twitched into deformity when you weren’t. These expressions came with no manual attached. Everybody has his/ her first encounter with the big bad world, after which elders nudge him/ her into a state of reality. People start whispering into their ears constantly that there is no such thing as a “happily ever after...”

The first encounter could have been in the form of that boy who pushed you to the ground in an attempt to get that last piece of chocolate from the rack; an old woman who abused in a language you could not decipher because your mother refused to give her alms; your own brother for snitching on you to your parents; your biased teacher refusing to acknowledge your hard work; your best friend (till date) looks at you one morning before class assembly and decides she doesn’t want to you as a friend anymore (out of sheer boredom); being bullied and letting people bully you…

The effect of these help you in a self-exploration drive. You never knew feelings such as anger, extreme fear, anxiety and hope existed within yourself until you went through a parade of such encounters. Much like the biggest mystery one needs to solve during one’s lifetime is oneself. Constantly drifting through a one experience after the other, only to discover a little more.

My first encounter with reality was during my first year at school. It was Christmas time and all my friends were chirping about their list to Santa Clause under the pretty Christmas tree. Excitement dawned. I went back home and spoke to a disinterested family about Santa Clause and his charming adventures. I realized I had to take matters into my own hands and simply assume that the corner stand (which to my mind looked a lot like a Christmas tree) was my pretty tree – praying all the while that Santa forgives this small interchange. Wrote down a list, asking for a couple of skateboards and a colouring set in bad handwriting and stashed it under the ‘tree’.

The next morning – I couldn’t wait to wake up and see a set of neatly packed presents from Santa himself.

It took me a while to recover and gather myself to watch another ‘Christmas’ movie ever since. 

Demolishing the Block

When people tell you “you are good,” an invisible burden ironically ‘floats in’ from nowhere and rests on your shoulders. The burden being- always being good. As someone who likes penning down thoughts on an extremely random basis , I was jabbed with a writer’s worst low – The Block – for the longest two months of my life. Though many have tried to express in their own words, the actual feeling of being to the most popular vacation spot called the Writer’s Block, it’s still very hard to use words to describe it. Writers need motivation. Each writer has his own muse and his own idea of motivation. Each person is a writer- some are perpetually in a blocked mode; while some slip into it occasionally.

The first signs of hanging out in the Block:
- Every time somebody mentions your writing and your past works, your heart cringes and you sense the discomfort.
- You have opened MS word several times only to type “QWERTY” and backspace it.
- You desperately read through your old pieces seeking some sort of inspiration.
- You turn irritable when somebody reminds you that “it has been a while since the last one”
- You hate being inconsistent with quality. You are never too pleased with what you think or write.

In my case the worst sign was desperation. I turned so desperate that all through the day I tried spotting a feasible “blog post” idea. The bus, the loo, the mirror, the window- all enticed me into brainstorming for a possible cover for the blog. From the birth of this blogspot, posts and words have been effortless and free-flowing. For the first time, it was actually a pain to drag the post-string along (what I thought was) the right track. So I decided to do what they prescribe to block-hit writers.

I wrote a poem to shake away from the tangles of the Block

I want to write,
Get done with the fight,
between my pen and mind;

I told myself,
rake up the old shelf,
for the flash you will find;

No writer should sit;
without the bulb lit
for the muse will yawn in pain

For, to every boon
the writers swoon,
there’s the Block that marks the bane.