March

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March is about early, sunny mornings

It is about the struggle between the blanket and the fan,

Getting sweaty at nights,

And the distasteful feeling of wet bed sheets

Tossing and turning and eventually waking up

 

March is about light pink flowers on the Rain Tree

The time when it is not shedding its leaves

March is about the winds carrying the small dispersals

That gets stuck in your hair, unknowingly

And quietly

 

March is about the rain and thunder

That comes during the nights

Like a train arriving at the station, and

Leaving before you know it

 

March is about the need for ice cream,

Cassatas and Oreo thick shakes

March is about runny noses and a sore throat

And more ice cream the very next day

 

March is about the wind blowing the dust

About squinting eyes and shielded faces

March is about chapped lips and dry skin

It is about the hair falling on your face

 

 

 

Family anecdotes (Pt. I)

I feel that I should write about my paternal grandmother. She is around 72 years old. Both me and my sister aren’t emotionally attached to her in any way. She is not like the grandmother that you hear stories about from your classmates. I somehow refuse to believe that she was emotionally connected to her children, to say the least. She is one of the most complex characters I have ever encountered within my family, a person who is undecipherable. Whenever we used to go to Jorhat, where our grandparents used to live, we rarely used to spend time with her. My grandfather was a jolly and cheerful person while she was always a hazy being who managed her time between the kitchen, doing chores and looking after the cows with whom she used to talk a lot. Human interaction was somewhat a rarity for her. Somehow, I feel that the cows understood her as well. She used to milk them and take care of their food. We never heard any stories from her nor any lullabies. She was a lady who always had a serious look on her face as she passed her days, rarely smiled or looked amused by anything. She was always old, as long as I can remember. She rarely went out of her house to go anywhere until and unless it was absolutely necessary.  She is a woman who never mingled with anyone in particular. I once asked my mother if she ever had any friends in her life and to my utter surprise she said yes. She told me of the time when she had a friend who was the polar opposite to her, who used to talk a lot with everyone while my grandmother used to stay quiet most of the time. It is a mystery to me as to how they got along with each other but I guess the friendship didn’t last long because we don’t know that friend’s whereabouts and nor has my grandma mentioned anything about her. This wasn’t surprising to me. My mom got to know this story from my father apparently.

My grandmother was superstitious and believed in magic and voodoo that other people could apparently do to harm someone. I am not sure how she feels about it now. My mother told me about this one time when someone got a dress for my sister when she was very young. At that time, my parents used to live in Jorhat. This relative got a red dress for my sister. After the relative left, my grandmother took the dress from my mom, poured some kerosene and turned it into ashes saying that it had black magic in it. No further explanation was given. I remember my mother saying to me that it was a very beautiful dress, something which caught her eye on the first sight. Many such instances have happened. She has ended up blaming the maid countless times for indigestion that occurs after eating something too spicy. All this sounds too bizarre for us but we cannot do much about it. She belongs from a different era and we can only nod in disdain.

Her life revolved in a monotonous cycle which she followed ever day. She never read anything, never sang, never went out, never showed excitement  over anything, and never showed happiness or any kind of expression of love towards anyone. She is cold and somewhat devoid of emotions. I do not know if she has the characteristics of an introvert. Maybe she has. But it became more profound after my grandfather died. She somehow made up her mind that she won’t do anything for the rest of her life except the basic human processes. She gave up cooking, interaction with people unless it is absolutely necessary and important or if someone is willing to interact with her. She left her home where she lived for around 60 years, left her cows without thinking twice, forever.

An impetus for change

Yesterday, I witnessed a very interesting public event. I haven’t been to many political events or gatherings in my life; I have rarely attended political talks by ministers, student leaders and activists. But yesterday was different. My friend B told me a few days back that he would be coming to Bengaluru but he was unsure as to where the event would be held. We knew that he was coming yesterday though. Three people in class were quite excited about it. The rest of them had no idea that he was coming.

I forgot that the event was happening yesterday. Classes ended and I was walking towards the auditorium while reading Animal Farm. I was down to the last 20 pages and was impatient to finish it off for good. The day had already been filled with frenzy and I just wanted to sit somewhere and read until my friend’s classes ended. The phone buzzed and I heard my name being called at the same time. I turned around and saw B speed walking towards me, his phone on his ears. I checked the phone and saw him calling me. “Kanhaiya is giving a speech at Ulsoor. You wanna come?” “Really? Where?”  I asked back. “St. Aloysius College” he said. S was walking a few steps ahead of us and I thought I should ask her if she would want to tag along. She might be interested, I thought. “Wait, I will ask S and come back” I said to him and jogged towards S. S declined the invitation as she had to meet someone at 5, she said with a shy grin. The talk had already started at 3 and now it was close to 3.40PM. Without wasting another moment, we hopped on an auto, gave directions with the help of Google Maps and were on our way to see Kanhaiya Kumar.

Both of us were sure that this chance shouldn’t be missed. I was quite dejected when he didn’t show up for Bangalore Literature Fest last year, for which me and my friends waited the whole day till 5PM, hoping that he would show up. But he didn’t. Also, B told me that this event would be a good chance to get close to him and invite him for META 2017. I, for one, was quote charmed by Kanhaiya’s charisma and his oratory skills. It took me some time to understand what he was actually trying to do with the current political scenario in this country, what his point was and how he was trying to put sense into our minds; especially the youth. And, it was fascinating. Both of us were quite pumped up and B told me that AM asked him why he didn’t go for the event. It was almost evening and the streets were full of traffic. After encountering multiple red lights, we reached Ulsoor. I had never seen the Ulsoor Lake up close and it seemed like any other lake. The waters seemed clean and devoid of garbage. I didn’t pay much attention though. We stopped near the back gate of the college, adjacent to the playground. I saw a police bus and a few cops roaming nearby. They told us to go to the front gate, the one we had crossed seconds ago. We started jogging towards the gate which was a few yards away. We encountered more cops and they told us to go to the ‘front-front gate’. We decided to run this time because it was really getting late. Me and B laughed while we ran, our excitement running wild. We reached the front-front gate and I saw more cops and NCC cadets. We should our IDs and asked for directions. “3rd floor. Hurry up, it’s ending soon!” the guy at the gate said. We ran three flights of stairs and my legs were numb from running all that distance. I hadn’t run for around six months and my lungs were answering. We entered the auditorium huffing and puffing and there he was, standing on the podium, giving his speech. The place was filled with people, all of them seated on benches, a few cameras hovering around here and there. The first thing I heard him saying was how communism has been maligned by people in this country. “They think the communists are a nasty bunch. That they indulge in all kinds of bad activities, have group sex, and propagate antisocial views. This is a grave misunderstanding and it needs to change.” Me and B shared a quick smile at each other as people clapped and cheered along. I started looking around for familiar faces but I couldn’t find any. Spotting an empty bench instead, I went forward and sat down. I could feel my heart pounding from all that reckless running. My mother’s advices related to physical exercise started ringing on my mind. I realized that I should run more every now and then. I stared hard at the floor.

Kanhaiya went on talking about how the youth play a crucial role in changing the political structure of a country. How the youth has to take action instead of just being vote banks for the country. He talked about the skewed ideology of the RSS and how it has been metamorphosising this country based on nationalistic ideals.  “Nau jawan ko sarak pe utarna parega (The youth has to come out to the streets)” More cheering and applause followed. Someone from the audience raised a question, “Will Kanhaiya Kumar be the next Prime Minister?” More cheering and applause. “I don’t know that, I have no idea” was his reply with a smile. He was speaking in Hindi as well as in English. I had never seen him speak in English before on TV. He spoke slowly and composed himself well, that made you want to listen to him because it felt like he was directly speaking with you. The session was coming to an end when a guy much like me stood up and asked Kanhaiya to chant his ‘infamous’ anthem of Azadi. A sudden uproar emerged, a few people stood up, Kanhaiya slowly moved towards the mic. “Aap sabko bhi bhaag lena parega isme ab toh (Everyone has to take part in this with me)” More people stood up, including me. The guy sitting next to me continued to stare at his phone. I tried to lean and check out what he was doing but I was unable to figure it out. There was a lot of murmuring in the room by now. The chants of “Azadi!” boomed across the room as Kanhaiya went on, fist pumping high. All dynamic. All energetic.

It was motivating. I won’t deny that. The event ended and his personal group of bodyguards from AISF barricaded him as he came down from the dais and smiled and clicked photos with the crowd that was by now throwing themselves over him. Some shook hands and talked for a few seconds. The red t-shirt clad AISF men cleared the way as the pushed through. My friend B managed to get in and told him about our purpose and took a few selfies. I refrained from taking selfies as it’s not my thing, although I took a few pictures while he was speaking. People were waiting outside with motives of their own. I saw a few reporters as well. Kanhaiya was ushered inside a room with the college officials and a few special people who sat down and drank tea and took even more pictures and gifted him an executive diary with a calendar from the college. We meanwhile patiently waited outside. A guy poked me from behind and asked, “Which one of them is Kanhaiya?” “Uh, the one drinking tea. See! He just stood up” I said. “Oh! That’s him? Okay, thanks” He went off without saying anything more.

I counted two more police buses after we came out, along with three police jeeps. There were approximately one hundred policemen outside for his security. As he whizzed away in a grey Swift Dzire followed by his platoon of bodyguards, it didn’t take me long to realize how important this guy, who faced jail time for reasons everyone knows about, is and the impact he has managed to create among the masses. He is an impetus for change.

A universally acknowledged truth

It’s a truth, universally acknowledged that rains make us feel melancholic and oh so gloomy. There is something about the rains which take us back down the memory lane, maybe think about the times that passed by or the ones we loved and perhaps lost. It makes you pick up that pen and brush the dust off that cheap leather diary you got from your father four months ago. It makes you want to write poetry, to pour yourself out in the form of words so that you cease to drown under the ramblings that recuperate inside your mind. It makes you want to share all those feelings with someone, anyone, a piece of paper or with your laptop. I get the feeling to write about things when it rains, the memories of old become somehow fresh like the vibrant green and brown of the soil and the foliage. Inhaling the petrichor gives you a feeling of reliving those moments again. Looking up at the slow pace of those dark clouds remind you how all of it was temporary, and wasn’t actually meant to last forever. Why do I feel like this? I do not know but I am sure that I am not the only one.

It is another truth that rains bring along with them the feeling of lethargy. What wouldn’t I give to just lie under those sheets all day, with a mug of coffee and perhaps some good music or a book and think about life in general, until your mother’s voice reverberates through the entire house, reminding you that it is almost lunchtime and that your father is vehemently pissed off at you. Somehow, you begin to question about life right from the bed itself, why should I get up at all? Until your mother gives you another warning. My parents have always been early risers and thus they expect their children to do the same and both of us (me and my sister) have left no stone unturned to make them feel disappointed regarding this.

Sometimes I think about why the rains make us feel gloomy and lethargic, why this particular weather? Is it because of the tendency in us to have a negative affinity to things that are grey i.e. the clouds and the atmosphere or is it because everything seems unreasonably calm on a rainy day which is somehow in contrast to the chaos we are so used to? Is it because we long for that chaos so much that its absence becomes difficult to accept? A lot of questions but very few answers.

Rainy days are also about samosas and pakoras! Evening tea with pakoras that my father gets from that shop bearing my mother’s name at Tribeni Circle is something that makes that evening special. On other days, my mom detests the samosas and it’s me who usually ends up eating her part. I can safely conclude that rainy days create a certain affinity between my mother and the samosa on the plate. And because of that, on rainy days, father smiles a little more.

Rainy days are also about muddy roads, spoiled sneakers, wet clothes, splashes from potholes as a vehicle passes by, tea from a roadside shop mixed with rainwater, clothes on the clothesline hanging for days, misty windows, cool breezes, that cat who is nowhere to be seen, empty park benches and colourful raincoats. Rainy days are a mixed bag, sometimes a joy for many and sometimes a hopeless despair.

I, for one, always waited in vain to see a rainbow.

 

 

 

 

 

The day everyone forgets traffic rules

The fireworks started off well before it was the 1st of January. My cellphone flashed 11:56PM but I could already hear people screaming and the streets embroiling up with energy. Almost two minutes later I saw fireworks all around myself followed by an increase in honking on the streets below me. I peered down and saw this dramatic change but couldn’t give my complete attention because it was time for us to release the sky lanterns. I was in a small café in Kormangala and we were lighting up lanterns to mark the onset of the new year. My lantern was pink in colour on which we were asked to write a message or a wish. I couldn’t come up with a wish and instead settled for a quote by Dream Theater instead. My lantern struggled for a brief period of time before deciding to ascend into the Prussian blue sky. The four of us released our lanterns and we gazed until they disappeared into the night sky, travelling to places unknown. I remember telling my friend M, “Do you think anyone would find them and read our messages?” I hope someone did.

M’s father had decided to pick us up from Kormangala. We left the café and walked towards where the car was parked. After talking to her father, M said that the car was parked almost 1.5 kilometers away because the traffic was already bad and there was no way one could reach Sony Signal. By now, the city had a different life altogether. I saw scores of people walking down the road, most of them swaying like pendulums. A few scooty and bike riders passed us while wishing us a happy new year on the top of their lungs. There was hooting and whistling in all the directions followed by peppy, EDM music from the pubs and hotels nearby. M asked a bystander for directions because we didn’t know where Udupi Upahar was. M’s father was tensed as we were taking time to reach and he was already witnessing the chaos ensuing on the streets. We decided to book a cab after figuring out that walking won’t be feasible. The fireworks and the hooting continued. People riding bikes at unusual speeds continued to pass by, a lot of those pillion riders waved and continued to scream. I saw red and blue lights flashing on the distance.

The cab arrived and we got on board. M’s father had already called her around 5 times by now. The area near Forum Mall was jam packed. What made things worse were the people who were crossing the roads, the bikes which were maneuvering into every small gap possible, the hands flashed by almost every auto driver indicating that he would like to go first and the constant honking that blared from everywhere. Somehow, it seemed as if everyone forgot what traffic rules were. As we crawled through the crowd, our cab driver cautious enough to not make any mistakes, I saw the city coming to life in a way that I had never seen before. The streets were filled with people, people sitting on the pavements, people holding hands and waiting to cross the road, people who didn’t give a damn and crossed the road as cars braked rashly in front of them, people who were puking on the pavements, people inside cars bobbing their heads to loud music, people who looked tired and drunk and were trying their best to have a good time nevertheless. M’s dad called again and I was pretty sure that he was quite tensed because M’s vocal tone was increasing with each consecutive call. I was able to figure out that she was telling her dad to calm down and that we were on our way. By now, there were traffic policemen on the road and I saw a few more blue and red flashing lights.

We took a left from Sony Signal towards our destination and yet again the road was full of traffic. I saw a jeep in front of us with a few guys in it bobbing their heads to Cheap Thrills. It was evident that all of them were intoxicated as their faces and their driving displayed. One of them was fisting his hand on the air while whistling. Perhaps they were having a good time; perhaps this was their definition of fun and this was how they chose to express it. I looked at the phone of our cab driver and it showed that we were 900m away from our destination. M was still confused as to where her dad actually was. She was talking to him until a few seconds ago. I heard a crashing sound; the sound produced when a car hits another car and I saw that a white Swift Dzire had collided with a red Swift. The right sided back door which was facing the incoming traffic was dented. There was a sudden uproar from the people nearby. I was getting tensed when I heard M saying “Is that my dad’s car? Can you read the plate?” Her voice was a bit shaky. I read the plate aloud and she told me that maybe it was their car. We were still moving in a tortoise pace and I was able to see that nobody was there on the driver’s seat. I told M the same as she dialed her dad’s number. The white Swift Dzire meanwhile managed to get away although we got the license plate. Her dad confirmed that it was their car. People were hovering near the vehicle but nobody tried to stop the fleeing car. We decided to leave the cab and crossed the road. Another duo on a bike crossed our faces wishing us a happy new year while I was panicking because I so didn’t want the night to end up in a negative case. Fortunately, the damage wasn’t too much and a few bystanders informed us the car’s license plate number. Nobody talked for the first ten minutes on our way to Basavangudi until M said to her father that it was okay and that we have the registration number of the car, putting a hand on his shoulders. I felt dismal; somehow I felt that we were to blame for all that happened. On our way back, I saw the same unorganised traffic, the same drunk citizens crossing roads, the same honking and hooting and whistling.

I thought about the jeep and the white Swift Dzire. Maybe, it was drunk driving. Maybe, it’s not a way to have fun after all.

Scenes from a memory

I decide to write about this. I think it should be documented, so that I can come back to this someday. The year is coming to an end, it is post-Christmas and the days are still sunny. I don’t feel anything that can be termed as cold or the winter. The ceiling fan above me whirrs like every other day; I am in my pajamas and t-shirt. No winter in sight. To break the silence, I have resorted to an album which I have been enjoying for some time now. I think you know about this album, I have told you a great deal about it.

As Aleáh sings away about the distress in her heart; creating the ideal atmosphere for me to write this, I ruminate about everything that happened in the last six months. Ruminate; I love that word. There’s something profoundly sad about it. When I hear the word, I imagine a seaside. The waves wash across the shore and the air has an acrid odor of the salt lingering about. I imagine high cliffs, majestic and hiding behind the fog. A very dramatic, Scandinavian landscape, you will say. The skies have a shade of something between grey and pale yellow. The sunlight tries in futility to creep in. It almost seems like a conflict in the astral space above. A certain duality of sorts. This is how rumination in the material world would look like to me.

***

A lot has happened during the course of this year. This is the last post for this year. I come to realize now that I didn’t write much. Maybe I will change things next year.  You are one of the few people who are really keen to read whatever I write. I am glad for that. I think I can express what I can’t say through my writing. You told me once how you find a different version of me through my writings. I wouldn’t be able to say half the things I write in real life. That’s just the way things are. I am verbally restricted. That’s how I would like to categorize myself.  But it is alright, I guess.

Aleáh is ruminating. She sings about the million things she has to say. She sings about guilt and shame, asking me to look straight into her eyes, to look beyond her tears. She tells me to hold her while she bleeds herself dry. She asks me to shield my eyes from the fire-light. To see past the lies she has told; which burn a way through her eyes every time she sheds a tear, the things she has done and what she is. She tells me how she wishes I would’ve said the million things I had to say. She tells me that she is not what she fights.

***

I am quite thankful for things right now. After quite a long stretch, everything feels calm and peaceful like the sea during a lazy afternoon. Quoting that post rock band, I feel that ‘all is bright, all is beautiful.’ I know that it wouldn’t be like this forever but that is fine. Living in the moment is what everyone tells me to do. And I am ready to do just that, irrespective of the consequences that follow. For experiencing happiness, you have to be a bit reckless sometimes. Sometimes you have to say “Screw your consequences!” I am ignoring this collateral damage for now. I am trying to break the monotony which has been governing my life till now. I am immersing myself into different facets all this has to offer. I am sensing that living in the moment has its perks although I think about the future sometimes too, like we talked about a few nights ago. It looms like a distant ship on the horizon while I paddle towards it. It looks like the mirage we all run towards in the desert. Sometimes we manage to board the ship while sometimes we just keep on running.

Although I wish this lasts for a while. I am sure you also wish the same.

There is no definite objective in writing all this. If you ask me, I do not know why I am writing this at all. I guess that I just want to. This is one of those things which do not have a reason or objective for its existence. It is just a way for me to keep whatever that is going on in my mind in a material, digital form. This blog will be witness to these ramblings every now and then. In a way, I feel it is necessary. I wish to not think about it too much now. Outside, everything is mute. The leaves are silent and the roads are empty. Somewhere a few blocks away, a dog barks every now and then. It breaks the monotony. Like you have.

Aleáh has been long gone. She isn’t singing anymore. Goodnight Liebling!

*

Kitchen in my house

P.S This piece was written as a creative writing assignment for college. The information shared is not fictional.

If the truth has to be told, I have seldom paid attention to what actually happens in our kitchen. I am talking about my home in Tezpur and not about Bangalore. But now, after getting this prompt, it has actually made me think. And while I write this, my mother’s picture comes back to my mind. Somehow I can see her inside the kitchen, doing the everyday cooking, as I visualize everything. My mother does all of the cooking in our house. Right from the morning cup of black tea to the evening dinner which always has rice and daal, among other things. If you ask me how the kitchen looks like then I will say that it looks like any other kitchen in every other house. I don’t think there is anything really special about it apart from the fact that life turns upside down if the kitchen is out of operation for even a single day.

As I write this, I remember how the kitchen gets really hot, especially during summers and how it becomes difficult to cook in it with all that heat emanating. I have seen my mother cook for relatives who used to visit us during my summer vacations. Relatives always meant more people and more dishes to be cooked and more energy to be spent. Humid summers didn’t help to that cause and I have seen my mother working inside that kitchen all alone while sweating. She used to keep the fan in the dining room on so that there was some air circulation but I guess, that didn’t help much either. We don’t have a fan inside the kitchen, if you were wondering. Surprisingly, the food always tasted good.

I have rarely helped my mother in the kitchen. The only thing in which I did my part a bit was chopping onions, capsicums and tomatoes. Sometimes, potatoes as well. I loved chopping all these vegetables. So, after I grew up, guests in the house meant I was there to cut these vegetables. Apart from that, I have helped my mother make pooris and stir the curries or vegetables in the karhai. And that’s about it. There has never been any kind of major contribution made by me. I never washed my utensils after eating nor did I ever even pick up the plate and put it inside the sink. As I write this and as I think about everything, I remember the countless times when I hadn’t helped my mother when she asked for it, out of sheer negligence and boredom.

I think my mother has spent a very large part of her life inside this kitchen of ours. She has devoted a lot of time to cooking. Mostly, for us. Sometimes, for others as well. Whenever I try to do something on repetition, it becomes mundane and irritating for me. It becomes uninteresting and you start asking yourself as to why on earth are you doing the same thing? Why should anyone just do the same thing over and over again? And as I write this, I think about how my mother has repeated the same task of cooking everyday for us, without questioning as to why on earth she is doing it and why only she has to do it. Her source of happiness and satisfaction lies in feeding her children and her family and she has been doing it for almost 30 years now. Perhaps, she thinks that doing this monotonous task everyday is the purpose of her existence. Perhaps, she also feels bored and irritated by it all. But last time when I went home, I saw that she was busy making my favorite chicken curry for me. With that same eagerness and smile on her face. And as I write this, I come to realize that kitchens hold so many things inside them. Things, which are silent and perhaps shrouded under a veil forever.