Grandpa's little Story

It was a Friday and the day for a review of that week’s work. The reviewer was a perfectionist and their last week’s review did not quite go well. So M decided to catch up with some revision and took out some printed material to go through. She had twenty minutes of her half hour bus travel from LA to Santa Monica Boulevard. She had a sheet of paper that has some of the most fancied lingo of the week—swim lane diagram. M's mind was trying to grapple with the apparently new terms such as swim-lane and her heart with the implicit infra digs that the people of the host(ile) country was throwing at her.

The bus stops, and an old man sits next to her. And as usual, the old man starts a conversation by saying, 'It has been a long time since I studied such diagrams.' I use the word usual because in these parts of the world, it is pretty easy to pick a conversation with a stranger rather than the person you know and a smile accompanies almost every face that you would want to smile at.

M smiles and gives a rapid and warm longitudinal nod to the gentle old man.

O: So, are you studying at UCLA?

M: No. I am working here.

O: Are you from India?

M: Yeah, I am from India... From a place called Chennai.

M knew that he didn’t quite catch the name of the place, even though she was sure that he knew India much than the others she has met in this country. People have never till now approached her with facts about her nativity as yet—she probably didn’t know anybody that far as yet.

O: Oh... ok. I have been to Cochin, long long time ago! It is a very nice place and I liked it a lot.

M: My place, also known as Madras is also close to Cochin.

O, with a smile: Oh yeah! Madras? I know Madras. I have been to that place once or twice.

By now, M would have looked at the old man for quite sometime and noticed that he has a real cute smile and he had just two of his premolars that were discolored. But the beauty revealed only when he smiled heartily. It must have been two days since he last shaved and the white stub that was merging with his thick left and right sideburns looked pretty much like mown grass.

Silence prevailed for about ten to fifteen seconds.

O: So, you are married?

M: Yes, I am—for about three months now.

O: Oh, so your husband is also here?

M: No, he is back in India.

O: Oh!! That must be pretty tough, I guess.

M nodded and pouted in accord.

O: There was a nice story that I now remember and would want to tell you. This is of an Indian girl who studied in the same college as my daughter and her good friend. She was really intelligent and beautiful with dark hair and eyes. She fell in love with an Indian but of a different sect I believe. But it certainly was a point that her father could harp on and say no to her love. The man was handsome, and smart and brilliant too. He was employed and well paid and had his head where it ought to be. Her parents were back in India and her father was vehemently against her choice and did not relent to his daughter's wishes. She tried her best but he would not approve their union. They waited for five long years and the father finally agreed to the marriage. In fact, when her dad met the boy, he was very impressed and happy about his daughter's choice. Recently, she had invited me and my daughter for her daughter's first birthday and I was cracking jokes on how it was during those days. I could see my own daughter in her. She was so respectful and never forgot to invite me.

M nodded in awe and happiness to be the recipient of such a nice open conversation with a harmless company in a strange and foreign country—a nice old man sharing a nice experience with her.

I mean, what on earth made them wait for five long years and that too in the peak of their youth. I guess, he would have probably kissed her maybe—that is all about to it, until they got married.
In India, when you marry a woman, you owe so much to her family too. It is not just her that you are marrying; you get wedded to the whole family. My first marriage was with an Indian lady. That is when I realised this. It was so much trouble, because she didn’t want to stay here and I didn’t want to stay there. Anyway, I feel that the dark women are much better than the blondes. They think their way through a problem and act decisively and sensibly. You know, both my marriages were with dark women. And I was really happy!

Nowadays, people do not wait for that long. They are really fast. In my age, divorces were far from reality. But now that seems to be the only thing that is real. Rest everything, including marriages, seem like lighter scenes in a person's life. You know, you’ve got to like the person who you want to marry. You must not love the person. Or rather you will not be able to love the person for a longer period; but you certainly can like a person for years together. When you marry the person you like, you will want to wake up with a smile morning after morning and there is no question of divorce.

In fact, I wouldn’t have waited for so long for a person—may be for the person, but not for her parents. Do you think your husband would have waited for you?

M was completely engrossed with the way the old man emoted when he was describing all of this. And when the question was asked, she was so overwhelmed. After a few seconds of pause and a mischievous smile she then replied,

I don't think so. But then, you see, most of the marriages in India are arranged by parents and the bride and the groom have a lot other different problems to cope with—new person, new family etcetera.

O: So, is your husband older than you?

M: Yeah, he is four and a half years older. It is one of the prime factors in a marriage in India. And three to five years is a pretty common figure.

The old man nodded and immediately asked the question as if he was ready with them beforehand, 'Do you know that women mature faster than men?'

M: Yeah, I do know that. But then, the only problem is that men do not realise the fact, until it is too late.

Both giggle and accept the fact. By now the bus had reached Santa Monica Boulevard and M was getting ready with her stuff.

The old man realised the same and nodded saying, 'So, Santa Monica is round the corner...'

M: Yep. Another bus straight down onto my left and I am all ready for today's work.

Both smile and M pulls the wire that promptly brings up the indicator 'Stop Requested' to glow and is as ever, backed by a voice that uttered the same with an exclamation.

M rises and says, 'Wish you a good day and a merry Christmas!'

O: You too beautiful lady!

Why and how does it happen?

Yet again, the magician has done it, weaving spells in the air. And I realise and appreciate it pretty late. Usually, it is me who treasures and welcomes the brilliance of the outcome. This time it is late realisation.

My question is which ear do I listen to... the voice and the music from the instruments complement as well as compete with each other. It is streamlined and simple music, without complications and apparent innovations. Also, there is certainly the brilliance and the spontaneity of an impromptu performance.

Shreya, the wonder, (her voice) is just awesome! I wonder how a person, without understanding the language can sing as if she is living the situation of the lyrics. Just too good!! And of all she emotes really well. Be it while beseeching or while asking questions earnestly.

It is an agreed fact that each language has its own intonation with regard to questions. Though those are apparent, sometimes, there are certain subtleties that expose the nativity of a singer. But, Shreya cruises through and lands the questions in the song with such poise like a light tiny feather in the air.

Except of course for some places that you might get confused with her tongue’s nativity where she pronounces 'oone vaa' very lazily, where it sounds like 'oade vaa'. Agreed that with certain words, sometimes, even the best of the breed native vocalists sound like they have not paid attention to the pronunciation. Let me not ask for too much...

In the latter half of the song, Rehman amazes me when each time there is a brief 'yes' in the form of a 'hum' from the chorus for the questions that Naresh and Shreya ask in the song. As if to bring an effect that an angel above is listening to Naresh and Shreya’s plans. Where exactly does this occur? It happens in the middle of the third minute of the song when Naresh starts off with

'Nilavidam vaadagai vaangi...,
HUM
vizhi veetinil kudi vaikkalaama?
HUMM'
Naam vaazhum veettukkul vaeraarum vandhalae, thaguma…?

The chorus when I first listened somehow sounded unwanted with the Hindi word 'rangoli' in such a beautiful and lyrically strong melody. But then the contrast only adds to the beauty of the song as you hear it on and on.
As to the orchestra, the Santoor bit in the beginning and the middle of the song gives a good beginning and a relaxing break from the breathtaking melody. The violin in the beginning adds momentum to the cheerful but melodious start. But except for the violin that plays alongside the vocal that sometimes goes overboard. And, Rehman somehow seems to be obsessed with the instrument thavil; even in this song (in comparison to Mayiliragae of Aah aah), he has tried to position the instrument amidst and along with the thumping western artificial beats. It has blended well.
Great song!

If you've still not figured out which song I am referring to, it is 'Munbe vaa, en anbae vaa...' from the movie 'Sillunu Oru Kaadhal'. Music by our very own, milord, Rehman.

All of a sudden...

Music takes a long time to appease me. The cool crisp evening breeze fails to soothe me. I realise that I am turning blind... to the awesome sunrises, sunsets and the still full moon. My mind and feet does not take the path leading to divinity. I find dreariness has turned dearer, so much that it has become the sole source of inspiration for creativity. Sometimes I lose grip of the things in my hand both literally and figuratively... and... Being kind to human beings seems so difficult!

a to zee

Be an answer to those unanswered questions
Be the breeze that dries my sweat off
Be the cloud that provides me shade
Be the danger that makes me bold
Be the enigma for which I search an answer
Be the fire that keeps me awake
Be a goader who pushes me to reach the destiny
Be the horizon towards which I keep walking
Be the innocence that saves me from trouble
Be that joy in my life for which I pray
Be the kiss that wipes off the pain
Be the love that makes me humane
Be the mild sunshine that gives me light
Be the night that provides me sleep
Be the orchestra that makes the music for my life
Be the pain that I can bear when I am hurt
Be the quote that stays in my mind forever
Be the rain that blooms my life
Be the song that will cool me off
Be the time that sees every second of my life
Be the undertaker who buries off my worries
Be the victory that I crave for
Be the water that flows through my throat
Be the Xanadu where I can live in
Be that BIG 'yes' I say after every triumph
Be the zenith on which I must always be...

That is me unedited... a few years ago: to be precise, I wrote it sometime in May, 2001

scrambled!!

A strange thought occurred to me in two consecutive days. This is about the two ladies at my office food court counter. The first day: one looks like an unforgiving teacher; the next day, the other lady looks like a doctor.

The teacher behave-like with her grim face, questions people with her eyes, listens with her ears directed towards people and shrinking one of her eyes, right hand punches the keys of the billing machine, the left reaches out for the money, the right hand now tears the printed note and hands it over, picks the change and places it on the billing machine with her palm turned inside.

The doctor behave-like has a pen in her hand, converses to people with her eyebrows, listens to the people with a nod, scribbles on a chit, circles the numbers, issues the chit and then receives the exchange, smiles, and expects the next one in the line.

Those were the days my friend...

When we blew our first big bubble out of the clandestine chewing gum; learnt to neatly roll the string around the ridges of a top, and swiftly flung the top from the tethered end of the string; first felt a thoroughly used prohibited catapult from a group of nomads who were ruthlessly aiming at the dogs, stretched the catapult to the maximum and splayed a mango off its stem; teamed up together, and contested with our next-door neighbors for wet-and-throw where we drew a circle on the wall, wet the tennis ball and threw it on the wall, inside the circle, and exchanged smuggled goods for the points we won; collected crystalline green marbles from our roadside friends, rolled it over the muddy roads and played aim-and-hit, and sometimes rolled ourselves over the mud, fought with them over a missing marble that fell into a nearby gutter, and when the rains gushed in and left us in solitude, we gazed at the small green marbles that had innumerous frozen air bubbles inside them.

Those were the days my friend, we thought would never end...
- Mary Hopkins

Translation of Minnale Nee from May Madham

Oh Mirage!
What's the reason for your past presence?
Why did you inflict that pain in my eyes? - and
How did you disappear from my soul?
The few seconds that you came in
burnt away the warmth in me.
Oh Mirage! My thirst is looking for you...

My dreary eyes saw the vanishing act of your myriad colors,
And all that I have, as memento, is the little warmth and sanity
that I managed to salvage.
My bosom shattered owing to bereavement and pain - and
the innumerous shards reflect nothing but your absence.
Having blossomed at your faded footsteps,
I am waiting for you…
with fear and a fervent flame in my tears.

Doesn't the earth wait for the rich rain, and
doesn't God wait for the festive gaiety?
Doesn't a poet wait for his words in pain...
so, won’t my love endure, if I wait?
Having blossomed at your faded footsteps,
I am waiting for you…
with fear and a fervent flame in my tears.

Oh Mirage!
What's the reason for your past presence?
Why did you inflict that pain in my eyes? - and
How did you disappear from my soul?
The few seconds that you came in
burnt away the warmth in me.
Oh Mirage! My thirst is looking for you...

Certainly yes! This translation/redendition is for sure the proof of the indelible impact of the song in my previous post!

Minnalae...

minnalae! nee vandhadhaenadi?
en kannilae oru kaayamennadi?
en vaanilae nee maraindhupoana maayam ennadi?
sila nazhigai nee vandhu ponadhu,
en maaligai adhu vendhu ponadhu.
minnale! en vaanam unnai thaeduthae...

kan vizhiththup paarththapoadhu kalaindha vannamae - un
kairaegai onru mattum ninaivuchchinnamae.
kadharik kadhari enadhu ullam udaindhu poanadhae - ingu
sidharippoana sillil ellaam unadhu bimbamae.
kanneeril theevalarththuk kaaththirukkiraen - un
kaaladiththadaththil naan pooththirukkiraen.

paalmazhaikkuk kaaththirukkum boomi illaiyaa,
oru pandigaikkuk kaaththirukkum saami illaiyaa?
vaarththai varak kaaththirukkum kavignar illaiyaa...
naan kaaththirundhaal kaadhal innum meelumillaiyaa?
kanneeril theevalarththuk kaaththirukkiraen - un
kaaladiththadaththil naan pooththirukkiraen.

minnalae! nee vandhadhaenadi?
en kannilae oru kaayamennadi?
en vaanilae nee maraindhupoana maayam ennadi?
sila nazhigai nee vandhu ponadhu,
en maaligai adhu vendhu ponadhu.
minnale! en vaanam unnai thaeduthae...

This is a song for which, for years together, I have truly felt, and have still been feeling the emotion behind each and every word in the song. For sure, this is yet another song that has left an indelible imprint in my heart and mind.

Mrinmayi and Malathi

A circular beam zoomed from the eastern skies and created a private sun on the wall. This miniature sun steadily sank in front of her, as the sun at the east rose behind her. Sweet child of mine, rocked heavily from the blaring speakers. Malathi looked at the apparent slow movement of the sinking private sun and her usual ironical lop-sided smile appeared thinking about the underlying paradox.

A few kilometers away, at Mrinmayi's house, the sun sneaked through the opening that she missed to seal last night and it basked her pale foot. She wanted to sleep endlessly night after night like how she found pleasure in swinging from one link to another on the web. She was clambering from the floor to the bed; she didn’t know when she had fallen off.

After Mrinmayi sprawled on to the bed, she started frowning as her mind recollected the closing lines of their last conversation. “Does it not hurt you just because it is your finger nail?” Repugnant assails never seemed to cease. Each one badgered the other with questions and remarks that only created conundrums for which these two would never be able to find a solution. Mrin didn’t quite know what went wrong in the lovely relationship that they had shared when they were in the same college.

Was it distance or was it that they knew each other too well that it had started to hurt? Theirs was a simple relationship and though everything between the two was so lucid, it never ceased to cause envy among their common friends.

Malathi, the plain and sarcastic lady, would pass off for any normal uncomplicated girl. But she was the kind who would appeal to a select few. Though she had often wondered what made a few people like her a lot, she never got an answer for it and each time, at the end of the analysis, she only ended up laying false definitions of herself.

Now, after about a year after college, they worked for the same office. In fact, they really wanted to get into the same organisation after their college. But the stars were not in favor of them, and Malathi took up a job in a small concern and Mrinmayi in a relatively bigger company though she got offers from bigger multi-national companies, she refused them for the sake of higher rate of growth.

Though their offices were poles apart, they always made sure they met each other in the weekend and exchange thoughts on mundane topics, small talk, stocks and shares, happenings in their streets, in the world—basically anything under the sky. It was something really simple that they had shared and they knew each other’s limits, dislikes, hate, sorrows and happiness. More than anything what worked for them was the respect that each had for the other, despite each other's anomalies, differences, and shortcomings.

Well, after a few months there were a few vacancies in Mrin’s concern and Malathi for her unmistakable intelligence, she did crack the hard nuts and landed in the same place as Mrin’s. Things were sailing smooth and looked pretty neat, until the day when Mrin's organization had asked her to travel abroad for a high-valued assignment.

An morning in Mrin's life

Heaps of mud decorated the road of the potters. For a change, they were not to make tiny pots that shelter the grains or water from pelter. They were to be used to create edifices, where the object of over-confidence, who thinks he is the GOD, is to take shelter. In fact, the structures would themselves be ashamed of their skyscraping.

Joys of innocence spread warmth on Potters Street. The bundle of joy was from the kids who were apparently happy about discovering the wetness in the fine sand in their feet and hands on a hot morning. Four kids surrounded the mound, started digging from the four directions, dug in deep till the first two found each other's hand. Several sets of four were waiting for their turn. The winners would then team up together to play a bigger game.

Several minutes of dedicated patience was being spent on repairing a watch that stands a proof of something irreversible--a horologer was repairing his customer's watch with his object-magnifying monocle on.

Mrinmayi was aware of all this while she was still contemplating whether to attend the eleventh-day function of Satthi Amma's demise. It was a bountiful Saturday and the one that Mrin was waiting for a long time. She was to meet her friend who had just come back from Jaipur. She never knew when she grew fond of his beautiful hazel eyes and his very non-apparent dimple that other people would have to search for on his cheeks. Perhaps, even before she became aware of him. People who knew his lineage would know from whom he had inherited those beautiful eyes. It was his mother who had those lovely glowing eyes that spoke a language of its own. Like an add-on, Mrigank had an additional charm in his eyes that would make you say hi, even if you have just met once and were a reticent person.

They had studied together till their class ten, and they were neighbors too. The fact that, the school roll call had Mrin's name immediately after Mrig's made quite a significant difference in the rate at which they got to know each other. But then, as fate would have it, Mrin's dad had to come to Madras owing to his occupation. Mrig and Mrin were the best buddies in the whole world till then, and even after they had departed, fate had them meet at least three years once, somehow, till before college and quite often during college days. Mrigank got an admission in a college in Madras aka Chennai. He had to keep reminding himself of the name change because he was so used to the name, Madras. It is certainly true for the number of times he would have referred to the place with that name, on quite a few dozens of envelops. They wrote to each until the advent of internet and other communicate-on-the-go type of mechanisms such as sms, mobile etc.

Just as Mrin was immersed in those lovely hazel eyes, she jolted with her eyes wide open and sprang towards the wooden table where the cell phone was present. The sense of urgency was quite apparent to the fact that she was expecting a call and also to stop the tremors that the cell phone was creating thereby disturbing the clam ambience.

The cell phone displayed ‘M’. It was Mrigank.

In a jubilant voice Mrin said, “Hey!!”

Mrig, in an elaborately long intonation said, “Hi!”
The interval between the ‘H’ and ‘I’ seemed so long that you could finish speaking one long sentence in the style of disclaimers that appeared on the stocks or insurance ads on TV.

So what are you up to in Madras?

Oh! Nothin much, just trying to recuperate a bit.

“Recuperate...? Why? What happened?”, asked Mrin in a worried manner.

“There was a small accident while I was trying to get off the plane.”, said Mrig in such a nonchalant tone that you would want to shake up the person and remind them of taking the responsibility of being a bit serious in life.

And you are saying that as if you went and got a pair of casual trousers?

Hey, Mrin!

Mrinmayi just loved it when people called her ‘Mrin’, despite the fact that one of her friends made sure that she called Mrin by her full name, because of the fact that the name sounded very Russian. She was indeed right, because there was a small village called ‘Mrin’ in Ukraine, a country that shared borders with Russia.

“It isn’t a big deal, just a small scar near my eye, and on the cheek.”, said Mrigank in an amused intonation.

Oh, man!! That is bit too much. What do you mean? And now, because of your nonchalance, I am getting a bit suspicious on the adjective that you used to describe your scar. Did you say ‘small’? I am afraid it is getting a bit serious here.

Hey! No you don’t have to worry to the details of the inch of the scar. I am perfectly alright.

No, Mrig. You are staying at Shruti didi’s place, right? I am coming over right away. Don’t take this as a chance and run away from the house. I will be there in another thirty to forty minutes.

Mrin’s call ended with a ‘Stay-right-where-you-are’, in a purposely americanized and threatening intonation.

Before Mrig could say an elaborate ‘Yes Madam’ in a rhetorical manner, he heard a distinct silence at the other end.

Mrin had already hung up and had started her vehicle to leave to Bose Nagar—the place where any hermit would love to settle down in his meditation. It was such a clam place and it would be an ideal place for an early morning walk or a walk at any time of a cloudy day. She reached his place, wished the elders, and Shruti didi, Mrig and Mrin collaborated into a long pending raillery of each other and there was no ending to the roars arising from the house.

An evening in Mrin’s life

It was just another day in the life of Mrinmayi—tall, fair, pretty, intelligent, and 28 years old. If you think that she is the protagonist of this story, you would soon learn the truth. The workload was pretty lean those days, due to the recent increase in staffing at her workplace. After many days, she got a chance to return home in that hour of the day. She decided to walk the few kilometers from the station that is situated nearest to her house.

The roads were pretty dusty due to the early evening breeze. The flowers on the floor stood as a proof of the breeze that blew and axed the flowers from its root, or rather, from wherever the breeze could spot a weak link between the flower and the tree. The fact that it was not breeze, but gushy winds that did what she saw in front of her, was slowly dawning on her, because, there were also a few fresh leaves that the wind managed to execute. The flowers from the trees decorated the road with pink, lavender and mild-orange and with strange patterns. A few yards away, there were huge, dead, ugly leaves on the road. There was constant rustle as the road was quite busy. And as she went past it, she enjoyed every moment of the rustle she heard.

Apart from all these scenic observations, she noticed that a few men, even at this time of day, were indulging in revelry after heavy intoxication. That brought a scowl on her face and transported her back to reality. But, within a few minutes, she reached home. She removed her shoes and as she was about to enter her house, she realised that her dad who was sitting in the veranda of their house was attempting to tell her something. She turned back and saw him just complete a few words.

"What did you say, dad? I didn’t quite follow you.” asked Mrin as a response.

"Satthi amm... Satthi Amma has..." he tried to say something, but she could just witness the tearful expression and hear her dad, as if he suffered from an infected larynx.

"What happened to her?" questioned Mrin with her eyebrows coming closer and thereby creating a crest on her forehead.

"Satthi Amma has passed away." broke down her dad.

OOPS!! What happened?

"She was well until today afternoon. She had her lunch and complained of being a bit uneasy. The tenants then asked her to take some rest and put her on to the bed and a few minutes later she breathed her last breath." replied Mrin's dad. She could sense that the composure claiming its way back into his system.

What was her age?

85. Almost the age of your grandma. But when compared to your grandma, Satthi Amma was pretty healthy during her last few days.

Did you go and visit her house?

Yeah, I was there the whole day, trying to set right a few things for the funeral.

Memories of the old lady flashed her mind with her overall face appearing first, then the diamond nose stud that constantly shimmered, and then the mole on her face. She was the only person who remained with the same intensity of white shade on her hair and seemed like she never grew older than that. Mrin had identified symptoms of Satthi Amma ageing, probably, only when she complained of difficulty in climbing their two-storeyed building to meet her dad. In retrospect, she was reminded of the gap in between the front teeth, her slanted walk, the summer holidays, her grand son kaarthi, his mom—the english teacher, the long and broad wooden bench by the side of which she use to sit in the earlier part of Mrinmayi's life. Her memories then darted across to the days when she used to just wave and smile to Satthi Amma who sat at the doorstep of her house, perhaps her way of catching up with the world, whenever Mrin went past her house on the bike.

Mrin was carrying out her routine and then when her mom came back from office, she broke the news to her. Her mom was pretty much composed and took the news pretty calm as compared to her dad. Her mom asked as much the same set of questions that Mrin had asked her dad, when she first heard the news.

Her dad being the proactive narrator in their family, started telling tales about Satthi Amma. Mrin learnt, both from her mom and dad, that she was the one who first held her when she was born and that she had taken extra pain in helping him admit her mom during the day of her birth. This and a lot more stories rolled by after that.

A few minutes later, Mrin and her mom left to Satthi Amma's home, to pay homage to her. "She had borne eleven children, of which a few died and made sure she saw that every one of her children buy their own house and settle comfortably well." Mrin heard her dad's voice resound inside her ears. "She had borne eleven children and brought up the ones that survived, with utmost responsibility." Just imagine the patience and experience she would have developed in all these years!, she told herself when she heard her dad say 'eleven children...'. She knew that Satthi Amma was called so because of her last son's name Sakthi. Of all her children, she knew only a few of them, Narayanan, Giri, Vijaya, Palani and Sakthi.

Satthi Amma was staying in Kumar Street, whereas Mrin's family was staying in Ganesh Street. Theirs was supposed to have been a single street, if not for the slight bend in the place where the two streets met. Somehow, the other streets lying parallel to theirs were all just one street.

In two or three minutes, they reached Satthi Amma's house. Satthi Amma was kept in a freezer box. She saw Vijaya and Palani standing beside the transparent box, and chanting aloud some sacred verse along with some others who Mrin was not able to identify. Like how, sometimes we identify a complete song on hearing just one or two words of the song, Mrin though she was a North Indian, she soon identified that they were chanting Thiruvasagam. She felt happy that she could at least identify what was being sung, even though she wasn't able to quite empathise with those who were mourning on the loss of their aged mother.

Mrin again fell into the retrospect mode and was reminded of Vijaya Coffee, Narayanan's own coffee shop, where Mrin's mom often bought coffee powder. She remembered that ever since she has known, Mrin's mom had been grateful to Satthi Amma for having introduced coffee and teaching the art of making absolutely amazing coffee to her. She would often instruct Mrin, “Ask Narayanan uncle to grind the coffee with two and a half portions of chicory.”

She stood there, retrospected for a few minutes, heard one or two people discuss Sathhi Amma’s life and their experiences with her, and prayed to God for her sons and daughters. After a couple of minutes, Mrin and her mom left the place, each one lost in their own thoughts.

little things...

you are completely hard-pressed for time, but still manage to succumb to your urge to write, wanting to drink an amazing cuppa even if the burns are still hurting your tongue well past two days since your last sip, wary of the staircase that tumbled you, but still enthusiastically perform acrobatics on the same fleet of stairs the next day, knowing that you are gonna be badly hurt because of another helping of a cup of custard, but still venturing for another one, rubbing your tongue against the upper jaw acknowledging the numbness created by the betel leaf that you munched in a wedding, you know you are too tired and it is almost brunch time, but you still over-workout yourself for that extra serving of custard you had last night, you are traveling a long distance bus journey. and you are irritated by the discomfort it may cause due to loss of sleep. and all of a sudden you wake up and feel happy to realise that you have been sleeping all along, ...and so runs the list in the recharge package.

after a long time...

i felt grateful to my friends,
i lazed around doing nothing,
i felt wasted after watching tv the whole day,
i have lost interest in someone,
i wanted to write,
i wrote using my personal computer,
i dozed off while i was attempting to think hard,

i kept the food wastes
on the secluded corner of the parapet wall,

i despised and feared a copious insect
that has been ruthlessly cruel to me,

i was about to slip into an unwanted
theme of character analyses.

life is beautiful... again, is it not?

the bed of pale frosted grass, the bright green footsteps on the frosted grass, the gleaming sun in the east, the shimmering reflection of the sun-gold on the melting dew, the mix of the warmth of the basking sun and the morning chill, the inexpressible feeling when the baking sun sprawls on the skin, the bright early evenings, the sprightly light and crisp evening air, the sunset that you perceive but not see, the vacillating twilight, the defeated dusk, the vapors dying to deform as dew, the rising vapors falling as dew, the dark deep shivering nights, the clothes that snug you, the freezing ice needles around the ear lobes, the deserted dazing roads, the warmth under the thick covers, the requisite respite, the fresh feet that feels the cold floor tiles, the hot ablution, the vapor on the mirror, the words on the glass, the rejuvenated life, the rediscovered passion, the regained love, the resurgent sprightliness, the words revelatory of good omen.

Wen Raey is here!

Exertions taught me new lessons,
making me muse all the way to glory.

With Wen Raey,

Hope I see more Monday mornings and
more trucks that gush the dust.

hOpe I remember to...
accept paradoxes and recharges gracefully, and
tackle the blocks that eventually give bliss,
be grateful to the wondrous ensembles and
the pecks on the cheek,

hoPe I encounter more silhouettes
that make me see life, sleep, and death, all in one.

And, HOPE to have more memories
that give me a feel that life IS beautiful.

Wish you all a happy new year!