Fading Mehendi

Mehendi as it fades,

is a sight no pretty.

Same was with her,

as she brought her face down

and cast her vision on her delicate hands.

Yes the mehendi was there,

but no, the mehendi was not.

Just a month ago,

was the dream wedding.

Adorned in her regal costume,

holding the hands of the man she loved,

as they stepped out,

into the glory of the basking sun.

It was then the war broke out,

those enemies attacked their motherland.

The dutiful soldier he was,

he had to report back for duty.

He hugged her

and told her he had to go back.

Back to the frontier,

back to the forefront.

The parting was tough,

but it was inevitable.

The brave face she put up,

was all a façade,

For she was all tears inside.

And it was the day before,

the news reached,

that he was martyred.

That she was no longer

the wife of a brave soldier.

But instead, there she was

the widow of a martyred warrior.

The sun that shone bright

on the day of their union

that sun had gone,

replaced by the wrath

of the untimely monsoons.

The rains quenched the thirst

of the grounds and grass so parched.

As she waited to receive

what precious little of him was left,

the mehendi adorning her hands

was fading into oblivion.

She stood there,

all alone in a savage world.

Not the wife of a brave soldier,

but the widow of a martyred warrior.

The Anatomy of a Code Review

This is the musing of a software developer. If you are or have not been in the profession, some of these might appear jargon to you. I have tried to write it in as simple a language as I can, but still you ought to be thankful to God Almighty for your absence of knowledge on some/all of these issues. Believe me, you are much better off NOT knowing all these than those unlucky ones like me who see lines of code floating around in dreams…..

Somewhere in the wee hours of the morning, long before the sun has risen over the horizon, in the dark alleys of a software company, an unfortunate soul sits away staring at his computer monitor, his hands deftly navigating the contours of a keyboard attached. That harangued soul, I wish, were my worst enemy, but unfortunately happens to be me. Myself.

The clacking of the keys is the only noise in the entire hallway, which is deserted sans a solitary me. I peck away at the keyboard incessantly, unaware of my surroundings. Completely focused on what I do. And finally, a few hours later, the beginnings of a smile begin to creep up on my face. At last, my code is working. An almost surreal feeling. Priceless, exactly the kind that my MasterCard cannot pay with. And finally, double checking everything, I send off my piece of code for reviewing by my peers. Also known in colloquial terminology as code review. That done, I head to the parking garage to pick up my car and head home. On the way down to garage, I try to remember whether I did have my dinner, or whether the last meal I had in the day was a piece of toast for breakfast.

Sometime after I reach home, I fall asleep on my sofa. And long after the sun has risen and the world around me is busy with its morning activities, my alarm chirps me to life. I brush my teeth, finish with my morning ablutions before I head to office. My first task - to check peer feedback on my code review. As I grab my morning coffee and head to my desk and open my computer hoping to see that my code has gotten the requisite sign offs. Or at least a few comments so that I have something to work on in the morning.

But alas, that is not to be. Indeed, I should have known. The very revered peers of mine were busily ensconced in their respective worlds, my request for reviewing of my code was nothing but a mere distraction. And so there I was, after toiling way past midnight, now at the mercy of my colleagues and seniors. If only they could give me some feedback. But fear not, it is not the first time that yours truly is facing this situation. With nothing better to do, I turn on the web browser. Social and anti-social media are the buzzwords as I delve into the pleasantries of life with friends and family from up close and afar. Cameth the lunch hour and I, having all the lavish time in the world, decide to skip the office cafeteria and entertain myself to a fabulous lunch outside in some restaurant.

I come back after a very sumptuous lunch and open my system. My mind is delving into the multiple possibilities of how to creatively spend my time in the afternoon in the office while appearing to my manager and the rest of the pack that I am, like a loyal servant, hard at work. No sooner has the computer opened up, I see my code review all lit up like the lights on a Christmas tree.

And there, after addressing the plethora of comments that flew in from left, right and center making me appear more of an idiot and less of a software developer, I finally manage to commit my code to the system. Feeling triumphant, like a warrior after a successful battle, I head to the kitchenette to celebrate my success with a cup of coffee. I stand near the machine while it splutters and cranks out the coffee I believe I so richly deserve. The mobile phone in my pocket vibrates. It is a new email, my change has caused a build break. Muttering all the expletives which I imbibed as a part of my collegiate education, I rush back to my office. The vicious cycle begins all over again…..

The Fruitless Wait

You didn’t turn up.

As the train chugged,

leaving behind the station platform,

the hawkers and vendors stay back,

counting the business they got

from the train just departing.

Fresh in anticipation,

about the next train to arrive

As the one after that

and the one after that

and the one after.

They have a hope,

a hope that hinges on the train coming next.

But for me,

out of patience

out of hope,

this was the train I took.

Whether it turns out,

to be a trip to glory,

or one to obscurity

only time will tell.

But I did wait on the precipice

before I boarded for my voyage.

I did wait for you,

I waited in the hope

that you will come to the station

that you will take me somewhere.

To live the life we so much dreamt,

to live the life, you always promised.

I kept my part of the bargain,

leaving everyone behind,

I came to the station

and I waited.

For you to arrive

And for us to depart.

An hour turned into two,

and two into four.

There I was standing solitary

among a crowd of humanity

with tickets in hand

and destinations in mind.

I was numb,

no ticket in hand,

no end in thought.

All I wanted

was for me to be with you.

And then it dawned,

painfully indeed

that you weren’t coming.

Refused to accept it I did

but truth was truth indeed,

whether I liked it or not.

And here I find myself on this train,

no ticket in hand,

no end in thought,

and no destination in mind.

These tracks will lead me

to where my destiny awaits.

Whether it turns out

to be a trip to glory,

or one to obscurity

Only time will tell.

But I did wait on the precipice

before I boarded for my voyage.

Goodbye my friend,

goodbye indeed.

Goodbye forever.

Those Wasted Moments

I still lag behind “Generation X” and its likes when it comes to something basic – accessing internet. At least once or twice a month, I make an effort to actually sit down and do something random surfing the internet. When small sceen phones, phablets and tablets have captured the imagination of the world, I still prefer my laptop to keep me company on those occasions when I deliberately choose to shut off from the mundane world and tread into a nomadic sojourn. Oh by nomadic sojourn, I do not at all mean the footsteps of those very erudite world travelers like Huan Tsang or Ibn Battuta, my sojourns are leaned back in the sofa in my living room, feet atop the coffee table (with a coffee, according to the time of the day and my gastric conditions) and staring in the laptop screen.

At a time when normally we’d talk of an increasing speed or swiftness associated with most things, it is simply one way of me pressing the pause button on myself. I have become so much of a multi-tasker – I listen to music when I work, I watch TV when I eat, I read when I walk, and so on. So much of multi-tasking around me that I often forget that I, like, everyone else, started off as learning to do one task at a time with diligence. Those days when I used to sit down with a text book and notes with pens and papers and no laptop or desktop monitor in front, those days when having dinner meant sitting around the dining table with family and talking was the only thing apart from eating, those power cuts which meant a degree of social activity in and around the neighborhood. Those days. This is what I try to simulate when I sit accompanied by my solitude, with my laptop connected to the internet.

Internet is one big web. The kind of web where you latch onto one cog, and before you know it, you are somewhere deep inside with or without realization. I end up watching some of my favorite childhood videos, songs or advertisements. Sometimes it feels like bliss to sit and simply listen to Mile Sur Mera Tumhara, that Doordarshan song does to me something still inexplicable. More than twenty years since I watched that song, after probably watching it for close to a thousand times, I can still watch it that one more time. The Doordarshan Samachar theme song, which seems to remain embedded. My parents, as was the case with my teachers at school believed watching English news at Doordarshan would help improve spoken English and as a consequence I used to watch Doordarshan news fairly regularly. The ten year old me can’t remember a lot of news items or events covered on TV in those days but I certainly remember gawking at the anchors and thinking about them as legends who could “memorize” half an hour’s worth of news and recite it flawlessly without stuttering or stammering (Oh, I came to know about the concept of teleprompters much later in life). People like Sukanya Balakrishnan, Tejeshwar Singh, Neethi Ravindran, Suneet Tandon and Rini Khanna(among the names associated with faces I distinctly recollect) were truly charmers. I don’t know the role it played in impacting my English language or vocabulary, it likely would have, but it certainly inculcate the news junkie in me. Plus, the inexplicable feeling of nostalgia on hearing the theme at the start of the news bulletin. Something which remains, and inexplicably so. The other element of my nostalgia associated with Doordarshan are the advertisements. Nirma (“Washing powder Nirma”), Nataraj Sharpener (“Khoob cheele bina thode”), Cadbury Dairy Milk (“Asli swad zindagi ka”), Titan are among some of the advertisements I watch sporting a smile on my face. I guess before sporting icons and movie stars monopolized the advertisements, these advertisements had their simple yet unique charm.

One of the things I “progressed to” with the advent of cable television at home was BBC News. I remember watching the September 11 attacks on the World Trade Center during dinner time from the cozy confines of my house, not fully comprehending the impact of that day but still knowing all was not well. Probably the most distinct “visual landmark” that I keep with me of my “BBC days” would be the iconic Countdown to BBC News. Sometime in the first decade of the new century, the television scene in India exploded with an astounding speed. I was absorbed into that metamorphosis where specialized channels came up for 24 * 7 news, movies and entertainment domains, as opposed to one channel (Doordarshan) for everything. Looking back, I can parallel that happening with my transformation from childhood to adolescence, probably one reason why I rather remember so much more fondly of those days with a single channel and limited programs.

Those frozen moments in time, idling and reminiscing of the time in front of laptops watching those videos, which are starting to become few and farther between, bring out the child in me. The use of internet, I realize, might not be all as is propounded and generally agreed upon. It could as well be a priceless source of reminiscence, of nostalgia. Indirectly, of some missing cogs in what forms the me of today.

Jacob Uncle

As instructed by wife over phone a while ago, when I got down at the bus stop, I crossed the road and made my way to Gopal’s Milma booth to buy a packet of milk. As I approached the booth, I saw an entry under the “Obituary” section of the public board erected by the Gram Panchayat. Curious, I moved in closer to see the person who passed away. Mine was a small village, which, in spite of the urbanization phenomena engulfing the entire country, had retained its village charm to a commendable degree. Everyone was everyone’s acquaintance some way or the other and with that, it made it highly likely that the person who passed away would be someone I knew.

On the board, below the text, there was a black and white photo pasted as well. Human mind has a general affinity to pictorial information over textual information and thus my eyes made their way to the photograph before the short text that preceded it. There was no doubt - the photo was of Jacob uncle. The photo was definitely not contemporary, it was in no way an accurate representation of how Jacob uncle looked over the last few years. Probably the photo was taken from his electoral ID card or something. It showed the Jacob uncle at least a decade and half younger. But there was no mistaking that it was Jacob uncle indeed. The text above mentioned that the death occurred late yesterday night.

I have been seeing Jacob uncle from my childhood. I remember vaguely a young and handsome form of Jacob uncle during my childhood. During those days of bell bottomed pants and hippie culture, Jacob uncle used to was the village hippie. I have heard my mother say that he was the first person to wear a pant in our village. Probably inspired by Amitabh Bachchan and Jayan movies, he used to have a distinctive angry young man flair. Those were the days when the whole village was without any fences. Houses continued one after the other, without being interrupted and gridlocked by fences and no one needed to ask permission to pass through when they were moving from point A to point B in between which were always situated, a few houses.

Jacob uncle lived a few houses down from ours and used to pass through our home en route to the marketplace in the village which was where the bus stop was. If my mother was sitting in the portico, they would greet each other and gossip for a few minutes. I could remember days when I would be woken up from sleep hearing the incessant (what appeared to me to be nonsensical) banter ongoing between these two people who were great talke chatter could range from a variety of topics, almost all of them centered on the universe called my village. Both of them liked each other’s company and there were instances when Jacob uncle ended up missing many a bus because he would squat on our verandah and talk with my mother for hours on, oblivious of the fact that he was just passing through my house and was supposed to be somewhere else by that time.

My mother once told me an incident from Jacob uncle’s childhood where Jacob uncle was with his father who was a lineman with the state electricity board. Once when Jacob uncle’s father was atop a post for repairs, someone accidentally turned the line on and his father was seriously injured by electrocution due to coming in contact with the high voltage line for an instant and fell off the post. Even though he fell on top of a pile of hay which absorbed most of the impact of the fall, the injuries caused by electrocution was extremely severe. Seeing that no one was around, and out of options, Jacob uncle, who was in high school at that time, carried his father to the nearest junction over a kilometer away from where he got a taxi to take him to the hospital. Eventually his father survived and the legend of the son stayed on.

If one were to see Jacob uncle in contemporary times, one would have found it really hard to believe such a story. Over the past half decade or so, the deterioration in his health was unbelievable, to say the least. Especially to someone like me, who had seen uncle when he was at his healthy best from the time when he was in his late twenties onwards. The fact that up until that point a few years ago, he was healthy and active and the sudden deterioration of someone who would be considered much healthy for his age around eight years ago was shockingly painful.

During my school years, it seemed everyone had a role to play in my life. Essentially, my life could never be viewed in isolation, it was a reflection of the life of the village. Like the newspaper guy Pathrose chettan, who used to occasionally give me unsold comics without taking any money. Or the village coconut climber Madhu chettan (so appropriately named because he was also the official drunkard of the village, and, by greatest of coincidences, alcohol is a synonym of the word Madhu in Malayalam) who gave me the first taste of toddy. He used to regularly ask me when I was in school, “Son, are you studying well? If you have to get a good job and live in a big city, you have to study well, only then you will get a good job.” On the day I got my job offer, after informing my parents, he was the first person I broke the news. He beamed with happiness and had wished me luck in my new job. Whenever I came home on leave from work, he used to prepare me a big bottle of fish pickle for me to take back to town. He was not a rich person, in fact he bordered on either side of meeting both ends meet and fluctuated too often than he would have liked. On my own volition, I had set up a job for Jacob uncle’s son Jibin at a workshop near my office as a mechanic. But the grime and dust of vehicular maintenance, couple with his asthmatic conditions meant he ended up quitting the job in town in a little over six months and went back to our village. Jibin did well after going back to or village, he finished a carpentry course from a nearby training institute and quickly became a well sought after carpenter in the vicinity. Jacob uncle was extremely disappointed that Jibin could not hang on to a more stable job in the city but I knew what Jibin had gone through and used to side with Jibin in his decisions. He looked up to me as his elder brother whenever he had to take some important decision and I was only happy to oblige Jibin because I felt I owed Jacob uncle after all these years he cared for me.

Meanwhile, my life was undergoing transformations as well. I married a lovely girl who continues to be my wife, had kids. As my familiar responsibilities moved from my parents towards my wife and kids, my visits to the village reduced in frequency and duration. What used to happen regularly every month and quite frequently more than that, was reduced to quarterly and semi annually. And without realizing, I was also losing touch with my village and the other people around whom my life used to revolve once upon a time, including Jacob uncle. My village changed as well. There were fences separating houses and boards against trespassing appeared. Small kachcha roads, over course of multiple election campaigns and promises, became pukka roads. Not everyone knew everyone else. The fabric was transformed, even if the changes were a reflection of what was happening elsewhere in the state and the country as well.

As my visits to my village became few and farther apart, so proportionately did my encounters with Jacob uncle. Since there was a pukka road from his home to the village square, Jacob uncle never really came to our house as often as he once used to. But still, whenever I met Jacob uncle, there was a lot of warmth and affection. He always used to be keenly interested in my professional and personal lives, and by association, with the lives of my wife and children. I had grown up in the strata to what is called by contemporary socialists as the middle class, but Jacob uncle and his family, weren’t quite there yet. They were still on the fringes. He knew that I was well off but he never asked me money, directly or indirectly. There were occasions when I felt I should help, but I backed away due to the fear that it would affect his pride, and subsequently, the rapport between us.

Someday, during the local pooram at the temple, during a casual conversation, one of my neighbors said to me, “Do you know that Onamkaleikal Jacob? He’s the father of the carpenter Jibin.”

“Of course, I know him quite well.”

“The other day, they diaganozed him with cancer. In his mouth.”

I stood there, shell shocked, unable to respond. He used to chew paan, much like everyone else in the village. If I were to throw a dart in any direction from the middle of my village, in any direction, I can tell you that the probability that it would hit someone who does not chew paan will be minimal. Paan was abundantly prevalent and popular in my village and everyone, men and women included, were regular users of paan. The cancer was probably as a consequence of chewing paan for over half a decade even though no one I knew had got oral cancer prior in my village. Sadly, this could probably be the first time.

The next day I went to Jacob uncle’s house. The house was almost exactly as I remembered from a few years ago. There were changes, the kind you expect with the passage of time, but the feel and essence remained. Jacob uncle wasn’t there, neither was Jibin. Jibin’s wife, a cheerful young woman whom I had known for years was surprised to see me. She told me that Jibin had taken his father to a hospital in the nearby town and weren’t expected before sundown. I had to return that day afternoon so as to start in office from tomorrow. Reluctantly I left, making a note to myself to come back in a couple of weeks and meet Jacob uncle. I missed that deadline, as I procrastinated. It was two months after the pooram in the village temple, the first time I learnt of Jacob uncle’s illness that I was able to visit my village again.

As I got down from the bus, I made my way to Kumaran’s tea stall, the focal point of the village news and gossips, just adjacent to Gopal’s Milma booth. There among a lot of familiar faces, I saw a lean figure, with a white towel over his head, sipping tea in a style that reminded me of someone. I took a careful look. It was Jacob uncle. Suffice to say that fter all these years of knowing him, I had to look astutely to actually make out that it was indeed Jacob uncle I was looking at. As if understanding my predicament, he smiled weakly. With the oral cancer inflicting a heavy toll on him, the smile was not pretty, but it was heart warming. “Coming from town?”, he asked me. I replied yes. Both of us took our teas in the hand and stepped outside. I was standing muted near this person, who was only a scant part of himself. “How are you?” I managed to ask. He didn’t reply.

I reached into my pocket and took out a wad of notes which were there. It was a spontaneous reaction, I hadn’t planned on that. I didn’t know how much cash was there. There were a few twenties and fifties and a small number of hundred rupee notes. I didn’t count, I didn’t bother to. In that frame of mind, etiquette was not even close in consideration. I turned around to make sure no one was watching and I tucked the notes in to the pocket of the shirt that hung loosely on Jacob uncle’s shirt. He tried to resist, but his protests were feeble, I was not going to heed to that. It took great effort on Jacob uncle’s part to speak a few words. In due respect, I didn’t talk anything. As we stood there, long after our teas were finished, we heard the sound of an approaching auto rickshaw. Jibin’s wife was coming in that. While we helped Jacob uncle to get into the auto, Jibin’s wife explained to me, “He wanted to come to the the junction and have a tea at Kumaran’s. It had been a long while since he had got out of the house so I told him to go ahead, I said I will come with an auto rickshaw to pick him up after some time. Jibin ettan hasn’t come back from work yet. Do you want to come home?”

“No, not right now. I’ll try to come by sometime later.”

I smiled at Jacob uncle, who was by now inside the auto. He said with his usual warmth, “Do come by if you have time.” I said I will.

I stood there without moving as the auto rickshaw carrying Jacob uncle and his daughter-in-law sped away and disappeared around a curve.

A lot of philosophical questions rushed through my mind. Why had God done this to this person, such a noble soul who lived an honest life and hurt no one, almost verbatim as the Bible preaches, I said to no one.

A few days later, I came to know of an incident. There was an NGO working amongst cancer patients in the nearby town. The oncologist Jacob uncle was undergoing treatment under was a part of their network and as a result, they contacted Jacob uncle and Jibin offering Rs. 10,000 towards funding for Jacob uncle’s treatment. Jacob uncle was weak and tired of repeated treatments, and by contemporary standards had lived a long life. He was in such a state that his doctor was not much hopeful even though he didn’t say as much. But his mind was sound and his thoughts were very much rational. When they approached him with the offer to give a cheque for Rs. 10,000 he politely but sternly refused to take it from them. They pressed Jibin but Jibin said he would abide by whatever decision his father takes without question because it was for his treatment and it was his prerogative to make a decision, not Jibin’s. I got in touch with one of the representatives of the NGO who had visited Jacob uncle who told what Jacob uncle had told them, “It is not right for me to take this money considering the fact that I have gone past the curable stage. I have enough money saved over my life to see me and my treatment through till I breathe my last. My son is doing quite well in his job and can comfortably support his family with his job. Please take this as a request from a dying man - give that money to someone who needs it more to come out of cancer.” In this day and age, where you occasionally hear of people and organizations fudging records to inappropriately claim governmental and non-governmental organizational benefits, that statement from Jacob uncle was indeed an eye opener.

I was woken up from my reverie by a hand which came over my shoulder. Matthew, one of my neighbors. “He was a good man”, Matthew said with a deep sigh. I nodded.

“The burial is in half an hour at the church. I am going there now. Coming along?”

I can buy the milk later. For now, I want to touch Jacob uncle’s feet one last time. To pay my homage to a great individual who lived and walked in this village till yesterday. With a heavy heart, I followed Matthew as he led the way in the direction of the village church.

One More Fall

Once again it is that time of the year,

the vibrant colors of fall,

and the grounded and unkempt foliage,

does little by itself to hide the path.

The path to her final destination,

hopefully one day,

my final destination as well.

God does what he can,

to cover my path with leaves.

As this year, so the previous.

The leaves are dry,

never the memories.

I will never forget,

the path to her dusty abode,

even if she wants me to.

Eons from now,

we will be together once again,

in some other world she resides.

The same way we were,

in this world she resided

Yesterday.

She is dead,

I will be dead tomorrow,

but the feeling, that never dies.

As I tread the familiar ground,

the ground no one wants to be familiar with,

my heart starts to get heavy,

I know, I can sense,

her stony grave aching for his heart.

Of all the seasons the creator envisioned,

this, for me, is the worst.

This, for me, will remain the worst.

September has passed,

October does prevail.

As the trees punctuated the mellow of the winds abound,

I turned around,

leaving a bouquet of flowers,

a few drops of tears,

and a memory of lifetime,

on her feet.

Or rather on the epitaph,

that marked her feet.

Your memories are older,

by one more fall.

I turned around,

back to the road which led me here.

Come I will next fall, if alive.

Else before, if not.

Ye shall know the truth and truth shall set you free

“Your husband is evil, he is poisoning your body and mind”, her mother told her. She listened to her go on and on, ranting about all the evil things he did to her daughter. Her silence seemed to implore her mother to carry on, as if she gave her mother the permission to do this by not speaking.

Her mother’s words resonated with her. Late that night, she opened her diary, the solitary thing that had earned her trust in the recent past. Writing an entry in the diary was like salvation for her – it gave her silence a voice, her thoughtlessness a thought and her monochromaticity a hue. Of late, an entry in the diary for her was the equivalent of a child wailing his throat off out of frustration, it was as much a relieving force as an exercise in futility. All the memories came rushing to her mind like a flood, the pain he caused in her life, the feeling of being used and the belated realization that marrying her was only a way for him in his quest for professional glory in her father’s company where he worked. As her pen moved from one line to the next, she was wiping off the tears that streamed down from her eyes in a constant torrent. Every part of her body was shaking, and the tears was a way for her body to physically discharge the negative energy bundled up within her as much as the diary writing provided the same for her aggrieved mind.

She wished she had a chance to rewind the clock and start over again. To undo the mistakes in life that she committed when she was blinded in her devotion to her husband. To ease the pain she caused her mother when she decided to spend her life with him. And a ton of other things. Travelling back in time was not an option, the only way in front of her was to face it shoulders up and move forward.

She closed her diary, opened the drawer and tucked it in. Then, her eyes went to the sheaf of papers on the table that were fluttering in the light wind coming in through the window in her bedroom. She didn’t need to read them anymore, she could recite verbatim the contents of that bundle of papers that came in as a registered post to her home a little over two weeks ago. With a sigh, she pushed the sheaf of papers closed to her, flipped to the last page and signed under where her name was indicated.

She closed her pen, switched off the night lamp. And it is when the darkness that surrounded her, she felt to open the Bible on her desk and read a bit. She turned the night lamp back on, got her Bible. And randomly opened a page. And she read aloud what she saw, “And ye shall know the truth and truth shall set you free.”

The Gym Saga

We’ve gone from being woken up by the rays of sun, to being woken up by the shrill ring of that darn alarm clock to the pleasant but snooze-able tone of one of those mobile phone alarm applications. They call it progress. Whatever.

I was somewhere in the hinterlands of my dream, happily under my blanket when I heard that sweet tone. At first I said to myself, that would be the mobile phone of my angelic princess who was riding pillion behind me on my white horse somewhere in a grassy and romantic savannah. When the ringing continued even after my princess attended the phone, the reasoning cells of my brain kicked into action and told me, “Idiot, there is no princess and no horse. That entire thing is a dream. And the so called sweet tone is your phone ringing beside your bed.”

With reasoning notching up her triumph over imagination, I open my eyes in slow motion and glance at the screen of my phone. The smiling face of my mother shows up on that. No doubt, all mothers are awesome and beautiful, and so is my mother. But she, like all mothers, seems to take a divine pleasure in waking me up when I am sound asleep and want that to continue forever. At the rate of angering the purists let me say that a mother looks lot less beautiful when she wakes me up when I so do not want to be waken up. Same logic applies when she forces me to go to bed when I want to watch TV for another hour.

With a great deal of reluctance, I take the call. With an even greater effort, I mumble the customary “Hello”. As if the floodgates have opened, she launches into her tirade. “You haven’t woken up yet? It is eight in the morning; the sun has been up for two hours. Hostel life has really spoiled your habits and it will spoil your health as well. Wake up and head to the gym. I told you to go to the gym every day at 7 in the morning.”

Okay okay. I know I had told that to her. Who the hell invented new year resolutions? And who on earth injected this idea into my mind to start going to gym from January 2 of the new year (Justifiably, January 1 is reserved for waking up late with a hangover. So I had decided that January 2 would be the D day). Hmm, half asleep me listens to the tirade from the other end. Somewhere in the middle of the tirade it starts sounding like a lullaby and before you know you are gently being guided to a pleasant sleep again courtesy the angry mother. Just when you think that you’ve conned her into believing you are listening with rapt attention word by word, she realizes the folly and notches up the volume a note higher. I swear that even if I were to mute my phone at that instant, I would still have heard her voice!

And so her relentless tirade spur me to action. I sit up in bed, my eyelids fighting against me when I try to open them. It is day sixteen of the new year and I had started regretting my new year resolution a week ago. While I’m trying to get my bearings, she is tirelessly giving sermons one after the other about the importance of dhann coming after thann and mann and so on. She quotes the “inspirational” stories about that aunty’s son who lost fifteen kilos in two months’ span courtesy some regular and systematic gym visits. About how everyone in family was staring at me and telling her that her beta is munching lots of junk food and becoming increasingly fat day by day, month by month. Uff Amma, I’ve already heard all these stories a hundred times. Can you please tell something else?

Mothers have a divine sense of measuring the pulse at the other end of a phone line. As soon as she senses that I’m slipping off again, she spawns a new thread of conversation. “Arre, do you know, I met our old Ayurvedic doctor the other day in market. You know, the one who we used to take you to when you were a kid and you used to fall ill so often?” Of course, I remember him. I was way too inexperienced then to know what was going on when I was in primary school but now that I’ve seen a little more of the world, I know that he is no doctor like he claims himself to be. All he does is boil some leaves and make a concoction and serve it to every Tom, Dick and Harry who come in for “consultation” as an all curing elixir. Hell, I’m reasonably certain half of my maladies have their root cause from some ingredient he mixed in when he was brewing his concoction but lack of scientific proof and refusal of my mother to believe scientific logic together prove it impossible for me to indict the “doctor”, at least in front of her. “So doctor ji told”, on she went, “that if you can have goat’s milk first thing in the morning after exercise that would be good for your body. Is there a place where you can get goat’s milk in the morning beta?” My hands involuntarily make way to my own head. I wish my mother could see my facepalm expression, but alas she cannot, on the other end of a voice call. I try to reason with her, “Amma I’m living in a metropolitan city and that too in an area that has a lot of software companies. This is not village where I can go and pick up fresh goat milk everyday in the morning” Quick is the reply, “What do you mean? No one in the city has goats? No one sells goat milk in city? Don’t lecture me about goat milk, I’ve seen the world enough to see through your lies!”

All the while when she’s on phone, I gargle some mouth wash. Brushing is an elaborate ritual, who’ll bother to do it? One mouth wash and couple of Tic Tacs should convince others around me that I’ve done due diligence on the brushing front. With reluctance, I search out some clean underwear (or what I think is clean enough) from among a scattered pile of washed and unwashed clothes and put on my track pants. My mother is still on the other end of the phone, all this while dropping pearls of wisdom every now and then. A lot of which sieve through my very porous and currently dysfunctional brain. At last before I step out of my apartment to head to the gym, I survey my bedroom and I find an empty bed with the blanket. Suddenly, out of nowhere the dysfunctional part of my brain decides to harbor the Satan. I tell my mother on phone, “Okay Amma, I’m heading out. I’ll talk to you later.” A contended mother who believes she has been successful in persuading her son to get up and go to gym, happily hangs up the phone wishing me a good day.  And me, the evil me, decides that an incomplete sleep is more harmful to my health than skipping gym today.

And so, I jump back into the bed, pull the blanket over my head. A few more minutes, I say to myself. I’ll sleep for 20 more minutes; I’ll wake up and straight head to the gym. Just 20 more minutes that’s it. So what I thought like this yesterday and missed gym because I didn’t wake up in the designated 20 minutes? So what if the same thing had happened the day before? I’ll sleep early tonight so that I can wake up this time tomorrow. Oh wait, did I intend to do that yesterday too? Aah hell, who cares. For now, let me go back to my sacerdotal crime under the blanket. The princess and the unicorn are waiting for me. Wait, was it a unicorn or a horse? 

A Toast To Remember

Perched upon a rock so high,

watching down on the seas so sly.

I held in my right hand,

a glass of wine.

The final remnants

of a bottle of bliss

that was my friend for the night.

As I hold the wine in hand,

I’m reminded of what I miss.

The presence of me alone,

all but me, the stars and the sea

that means a world is absent for me,

on this starry night

as I stand

perched upon a rock so high,

watching down on the seas so sly.

Missing someone is precious,

a priceless feel hard to replicate.

He is a world away today,

yet he is so close.

So much close,

that I can feel his touch,

that I can smell his essence.

And coming he is indeed in the morn,

wait for me to join he said,

take me to places he said.

And toast me a memory

that we’ll cherish for life he said.

The tide was rolling in high,

as I flicked my hand to look at my watch,

I realized with a smile

that the time he arrived

was drawing nigh.

The sun will rise tomorrow,

and he’ll be here then.

And then as I promised him my love,

after the sun does set,

we’ll come together at this very vantage.

Perched upon a rock so high,

watching down on the seas so sly,

with a glass of wine in one hand of mine,

his fist of love gripped taut,

in the other.

The glass of wine in hand

was half empty.

Oh wait, allow me to correct,

the glass of wine in hand,

was still half full.

English Lessons!

There often come instances in life when you end up doing an intentional childish prank, or your do (or forget to do) something out of sheer absent mindedness which ends up making you feel like you rewound the clock of time all the way back to your childhood. I can bet it happens to you as much as it happens to me, just that the frequency and impact of such occurrences might differ from one person to another.

It was one such incident which happened to me recently which made me think of one of the earliest “lessons” (literally..!) I learnt in my life. I would rather not make you endure the torture of what happened to me, but the incident reminded me of a character who was present in my English text book in primary school – Kutchu. Kutchu and his family occupied a good portion of my English textbook in my primary classes. I think his wife’s name was Kamala, I can’t be sure about it. I very distinctly remember his son Ramu and his daughter Sita. One of the more popular and humorous lessons was Kutchu’s glasses which I believe, was in the syllabus for Class Two. The story was about Kutchu searching for his glasses, and eventually he “discovers” them on his nose when he looks in the mirror.

There was another one “Shake Well” which also has a Kutchu exploit in it. I only  have a vague recollection of that one but it involved Kutchu shaking his mother (or was it his grandmother?? Scratch, scratch….!.) after she had some medicine because it was written “Shake well” on the medicine label. Those stories seem innocuous now but I am truly impressed by their impact that I remember a lot of it even now, more than two decades after I first (and last) read them.

Allow me to ramble along a bit more. I have peppered my nostalgic part of my senses and it is not going to go away soon, not at least till I put a final full stop on this piece for sure.

English was a subject I really liked at school. I’m not quite sure what made English take the crown for me, maybe it could be attributed to my English teachers, maybe it was the language I felt closest to (since my school, a Kendriya Vidyalaya had a policy of not teaching the mother tongue), maybe it was the quality of the course syllabus. Whatever it was, English remained one of my favorite subjects at school and as a result I do recollect (and reminisce) a lot of what I learnt in my English textbooks at school.

There are a lot of stories that I remember bits and pieces of but importantly they introduced me to a varied number of authors and the differences in presentation styles. I remember reading Nadine Gordimer (Ultimate Safari), Satyajit Ray (Barin Bhowmik’s Ailment), Anton Checkhov (The Beggar), Sarojini Naidu (Coromandel Fishers), Robert Frost (TheRoad Not Taken)….. these are but a handful of what I recollect.

Thank you NCERT. Thank you Central Board of Secondary Education. And thank you, Government of India. 

Beerly Tales

Oh lord, forgive my soul. For I have sinned, for I have caused the greatest dishonor that can befall a family.

I have been taught that thou shalt earn thy bread with the sweat of thy brow. My family has always believed in that axiom and have always tried to follow it to the core as much as possible. Somewhere in the process of evolution, the great great great grandfather of my great great great grandfather’s great great great grandfather, Mr. Mattatuveetil Geeverghese Philipose Abraham George Punnoose Kuriachan Thomas or Thomachan as he was more commonly known in the mundane parlance added a rider to thee holy thought. He proclaimed that the future generations shall not only have bread from the sweat of thy brow but also beer. Earned from the sweat of thy brow. I’m still not a hundred percent on whether the process of brewing beer had been invented in those days. Going by the average age of the males in my family, I have strong reasons to surmise that brewing of beer might not have happened in those days and I would love to get a patent for the first use of the term beer. I have researched records available with Archeological Survey of India but they did not have any records regarding the origin of beer, they had only held records of the history of Indian-made Foreign Liquor. I even attempted to get access to the Papal library in the Vatican but it was denied citing the reason that they do not support research into the origin and history of beer. Wine was okay they said, not beer. That’s that.

But the point I was trying to make is not that. So this gentleman Mr. M. G. P. A. G. P. K. Thomas (oh hell, Thomachan it is! Sorry great….great….great….grandfather), he started this age old family tradition of having a bottle of beer on Sunday evening. Err, if you, as a reader have a doubt as to whether they had concept of selling beer in bottle in those days, don’t think too much. Just read this and go about your business! So yea, Sunday evening. Beer. That tradition has been carried on for ever since. Oh, there has been a couple of documented aberrations. The earliest known break in tradition came on a rainy June Sunday evening. Family records that I’ve had access to show that the place our tharavaadu (ancestral home) was, was inundated with flooding courtesy of incessant monsoon rains that season. The archives go on to say that Thomachan was actually able to get on a rescue boat, which was intended to evacuate the flood survivors from the area and direct it to the nearest beer selling outlet but the outlet had been closed. The records go on to say that Thomachan was heavily disappointed with this incident and continued to lament his misfortune till his death a few years later.

The second break in tradition occurred to my great grandfather who was serving as a sepoy in the British army and deputed to fight for the allied powers in World War Two. Mr. Mattathuveetil Alexander Jacob Paulose Sunnykutty Matthew or Mathaichan to his peers, was the first from our family to cross the ocean and to see a land outside of our country of birth but he also had the dubious distinction of being the second in line to cause a rupture in a centuries old tradition. In his case too, it was not him to blame it was more of circumstance that caused the accident. He was fighting for the Allied forces as a part of the British Army somewhere in Egypt when on a summer Sunday (Sunday of all days!), when he went to collect his “quota”, he was informed that they had run out of beer. He went ballistic and he is said to have search the camp from fence to fence, chain link to chain link, looking for at least a partially empty beer bottle so that he could keep the family tradition. Alas, as fate would have it, there was none to be found. He has even claimed in his memoir that he defied his commanding officer’s orders and walked to the German army camp a couple of miles away to check if he could borrow a bottle of beer for this one time. He was thrown out from there saying that German’s don’t drink beer, as Hitler hated beer, Hitler sanctioned only heavy liquor for his troops stationed outside Germany. (I highly doubt if this story is completely right. But hey, who am I to cross words with my great grandfather?) So there was the  second incident, more than half a century ago.

The tradition has carried on ever since. Following the footsteps of my great grandfather and my grandfather, my father has kept up this tradition. He has been such a stickler for tradition that the day my parents were married, which happened to be a Sunday, my father came back from the church after the marriage and popped open a bottle of beer first thing after entering the house that day. And that man, in the name of Father, Son and the Holy Spirit, had to endure the ignominy of the third in line to break the family tradition - the first one in over half a century to do so. And that, because of me, me the stupid brainless son.

This whole series of events shaped up yesterday (Sunday) evening. There was one full bottle of Kingfisher in its most pristine form, sitting inside our refrigerator. It was late in the night that me and appachan (father) came back to our house after a party at a neighbor’s place. There was no beer there, only whiskey, gin and tonic cocktail. Huh, as if beer is beneath his dignity! Why couldn’t he have stocked up some beer?! Appachan was mindful of the fact that he had to have a glass of beer after we get back home so he went easy on the liquor. But me, being as youthfully brash as ever, did tip over my regular capacity by a peg or two of neat whiskey shots. We came home and appachan asked me to get the bottle from the refrigerator.

The dutiful son I was, off I went and emerged victorious pulling out the beer from the fridge. With due reverence to the king of spirits, I placed it on the coffee table across appachan and plopped my holy figure onto the adjacent chair. No sooner had I got two glasses from the kitchen that appachan’s phone rang. Aww man, isn’t it too late to call? But call was a call and a friend was a friend so off went the brawny man with his phone and beefy guffaws. Now there is me, there is a beer bottle in front and two glasses. And a young gentleman, no scratch that, I wasn’t showing too much of the gentlemanly features with all that (free!!) alcohol inside me. So yeah, you get the picture.

The dutiful son pours two beer into the two large glasses. He waits for appachan to get back to start the ritual. Tick tock tick tock. No sign of appachan. So he decides to take a sip from a glass to taste. Argh, the beer this time is strong. Appachan doesn’t like it strong, hence off I go and retrieve some Sprite from the refridgerator to dilute the concoction. Now here yours truly is faced with an engineering problem - how to add Sprite on top of a glass of beer that is filled to the brim. The pedantic part of me comes up with an idea. I take two gulps each from either of the glasses and now I have room to add the Sprite. What I don’t realize is that I’m now for all legal and official purposes drunk. And thus, after taking those gulps from the beer glasses to make some room for Sprite, I swear I saw there were four glasses on the table. And the pedantic part of me further applied his engineering brain to the problem and decided to pour out some beer from the existing glasses so as to load balance. Load balancing, aah what a wonderful concept. Muttering thanks to all those known and unknown gurus of engineering, I set about my task. Needless to say, after an inexplicable series of actions based purportedly on logical solutions to scientific problems, after a few minutes my appachan walks in to find two near empty glasses and four-fifth of beer spilled on the floor and a terrified logical problem solver in rapt attention. Hic.

Monday morning. The regrettable night has passed and the sun has shown up this Monday morning on the eastern horizon. I haven’t stepped out of my room yet. I’m dreading the moment I step out of the room today and encounter my distraught appachan sitting in the verandah. Oh Lord, forgive my soul. For I have sinned.