The monsoon was too late this year.... I had to wait for long...those dark clouds to come and show me the 'greyscale' portrait they make in the sky accompanied by the cold wind who pulls my dupatta like a lover boy! I treasure my monsoon experiences...nowhere in my memory I can find a monsoon that laid me on my bed with a flu... Al through my life, 22 years short, I have enjoyed the heavy downpours.. I have the right to complain, this year he was late...
I am not sure about the size of the crowd that enjoys rain in hil stations... There are a few reasons I know- everything should have a reason for sure.... The soil would be gravel-free and the air like a freezer... Biting cold spoils many throats and makes many walk in search of health clinics! Somehow, I belive that cold rains ingnite me in every ways. Right from the age of seven I fel in love with cld rains...I can smell rain, feel it and live it...And I write this, though I can speak of not many readers, for my memories get inscribed in the cyberspace...
Wet soil under my bare feet makes me feel as if heaven has come under me... I always relate rainfall with odour...I t is at times called fragrance, and rarely in turns 'dreadful'! My dad's grandmother, my great grandmother, passed away on rainy day. I was too young at that time to store each and every detail to reproduce it at the age of 22!! I was doing my schooling at that time. May be seven ofr eight years old. One sunday evening, my parents, aunt, cousin who was a baby boy at that time and me, were at home. T he only landphone connection in our area was half a kilometer near! So the message of our granny's demise was 3hr old when it reached us...! Tears filled my dad's eyes though now he does'nt show anyu signs of having tear glands! He was so attached to her I know. I was sad, reason I really know. I was too illeterate to know the big loss I had that day. I now realise the width and depth of the gap the death of loved one can create inthe - life of others.
We climbed up the mountain from the valley. By noon we reached our place. I very wel recollect the place with all its innocence, purity and simplicity. A small bus waiting shed which rarely saw private buses and always inhaled the smoke left by State Transport Corporation's buses. A few shops that had limited number of gods and the entire village consuming them. The air never smelt bad. Always a misterious feelind spread around. Coffe plantations on either side of the road, tall trees sheltering countless number of species, butterflies, wild berries, flowers who smile at people....and all the ingredients of a beautiful living space... I use to encounter tribes walking around and wishing my father who belonged to the upper class. Their kids wearing rags enviying my clothes. The ladies lokking at my mom and aunt. The respect my dad and aunt [dad's younger sister] got from them was not because of fear, but because of their birht in a family that showed love and compasion to their life in backyards of or home! So respect withou fear, should be called love! Yes, all of them loved my dad's family. They were laborers in the plantations, but neithr my great grandfather nor my great grandmother maintained the rules of caste or race-just humanity prevaled in their actions.
Though I was to attend the funeral of granny, my mind was rather thrilled about the visit. I had no hopes about staying back. But I was happy thatI could be with kids of my age.We walked fast. And I remember, it was drizziling!
We had to remove our chappals when we entered the courtyrad. That was the first time I felt the siol so cold. I saw my granny draped in white cloth. She had a hidden., rather incomplete smile... Her silky white hair tied up and her wheat-coloured skin unaffected by the frozen raindrops! I was soon 'shifted' to my uncle's house which was a few steps near by. On my way, I found a tree, flowered top to toe. I vory white petals decorating dark green leaves... I realised, the rain was given an odour...no a fragrance by them... I still relate the rain with that smell.... Fragrant rain...or was that the fragrance of death?
Grandma was cremated. Usually an odour of burning flesh would fill in the air. But that day, I could take in nothing, but the rain's odour... Therafter, for me, rain turned out to be an obsession...death, a favourite topic of though and discussion and my granny- a lost treasure!
Granny was mother of eleven [out of which only 9 survive], grandma of 22 and great grandma of about 9 when she passed away. An obedient wife who was not destined to trvel beyond her home. She knew little about fighting with her daughters-in-law. Her smile, so magical [I wonderhow lucky my grandpa was to have this beautiful wife], and al she knew was to love-unconditionally.
I' m not sure about the reasons. But my dad was her favourite. And that truned out to be my fortune.During our visits to that home she used to pamper me the most, the main rason for my voracious apetite is her hospitality and coking skill! She had passed on the same to my dad's mom, who nurtured the habit of eating well.
Her skin was baby-soft, her hair she use to oil regularly and her super soft cotton cloth she kept always clean. I can recollect all... She fed me with love I say, punished me with care so that I was not hurt and prayed for my life's best. Her prayers for all never went in vain... A woman who knew only about how to make other's happy...
It's raining out here. My city feeds me with dust and smoke, My breath is no more an easy job... My apetite is no more voracious.... All that remains with me now is rain... that too a late comer... Atleast that remains! I wish I could drive back again...to that home, where my granny waits for me with a heart full of love.....
Wednesday 8 July 2009
Sunday 5 July 2009
birthday after 90 years
I belong to a country that has survived many wars against its soul and children. I belong to a country that hosted many religions and taught its values for those who searched for ‘moksha’ [salvation]. I belong to a country that bore four Vedas, six sciences and two epics in its womb. I belong to the largest peninsula I the world that preached non-violence and love for the living. I belong to India… the land of Rishis and ‘Omkara’….
I live in the southern tip of this blessed ground. Politically divided as a state that speaks a language of its own. I live in Kerala, well known as ‘God’s Own Country’. Now I am describing about my home, the ancestral land- Wynad which is part of The Western Ghats. My father’s family had settled down in the valley. Each day of my life was monitored by these mountains. They still watch over my deeds, though they stay miles away from me….
The only man who survived life more than what his sisters managed to. My father’s grandmother’s brother. Grandma’s [dad’s mom] uncle. His 90th birthday was celebrated. And I went for the celebration. Lucky I am. I could be one of the reasons for that old man’s smile…
I learned from his words that it was his idea- to celebrate his own birthday. And throughout his conversation, he made it clear that none would’ve bothered to be with him unless this was organized! I was surprised to here him mention about nuclear family. My mom, another aunt and some other ladies [relatives-relation I will never be able to learn this lifetime] and I, had to admit that nuclear families spoil the joy of togetherness….
He could not walk properly; many were there to help him. Good food, people and frequent, but weak rain…all made the day beautiful. Many were invited, but only a few could be there. I know there’s nothing special in this situation, it’s the same everywhere. Every family in this century faces this. The sense of belongingness between people is draining out. But where do all these changes take us to? Old generation behind the bars of old-age homes and children in hostels. Man in one continent, his woman in another!
I had to leave the place soon after lunch. Had to force my dad to take me to his place which was half an hour’s drive away! The land where he was born. The land that fed him with most delicious fruits, fresh air, clean water and above all, love and care unlimited. He grew up in the lap of nature in its fullest form. Even now I wait impatiently to listen to the stories of, oh no, the realities he had during his childhood. His mother’s sister, who is of his age, narrates those incidents with great passion. That passion, I too, luckily carry in my blood. Passion towards ancestral land, life and spirit!
Our ancestral house is no more. I was accompanied by my dad’s cousin who’s of my age! We went for a stroll. I wanted to capture a few shots and pick the seeds of different varieties of mango. For the first time in my life I went in search of the seed, not the fruit. Everything begins from its seed, fruits follow!
The monsoon was weak and not many dark clouds showed up in the sky. But I could listen to the sound of crickets. I would rather call it music, not just sound! They generate life for the surroundings…. We were walking.
Our journey had a good beginning, we spotted an orange. Let me turn a bit sentimental, I love to believe that the fruit was pulled down by my ancestors who are no more… do I belive in ghosts? I’m not sure…but presence after death is something I’ve longed for. The vacuum that was created by the death of my grandparents still prevails. I believe, it’s one of them who pulled that fruit for me… for me, this grandchild who’s destined to live in a decaying world! The fruit was big and delicious as usual. We picked some seeds. We spoke about present and glorious past. We realized that we were missing something important.
Our journey ended in our relative’s house. The very thought of the location of that house makes me jealous. The evenings I’d spent there, I can never forget. And anything that prevents me from enjoying that, I can never forgive…. They practice agriculture. They have a dairy farm and five doggies guard their property. My friends there- uncle, aunty and their son, always welcome us with open heart. Three of them, I feel, carry the spirit that I hold within myself. Uncle and aunt in the case of hospitality, and their son, in case of love for nature!
I remember and live those memories. They use to collect he nest of weaver birds. Nests beautifully woven. No skill or talent of human can recreate those nests- I bet! I love to sit in the veranda of that house watching the evening sky that ends at the border of the paddy field in front. Cool breeze would stroke my hair crating that uncertainty in the air. That uncertainty or secrecy in the air is something that binds me with this land. That quality I have adopted to be my character, keeps me away from many, but that makes me different- uncertain, unpredictable for those who haven’t learned me!
It was time and ‘Cinderella’ had to go…. I waved good bye. Though short the parting was, I had tears hidden in my eyes. It’s not just to the people there, but the land and its air. I could easily feel happiness being drained out of my heart. Soon it rained, heavily. Monsoon was no weaker….
I live in the southern tip of this blessed ground. Politically divided as a state that speaks a language of its own. I live in Kerala, well known as ‘God’s Own Country’. Now I am describing about my home, the ancestral land- Wynad which is part of The Western Ghats. My father’s family had settled down in the valley. Each day of my life was monitored by these mountains. They still watch over my deeds, though they stay miles away from me….
The only man who survived life more than what his sisters managed to. My father’s grandmother’s brother. Grandma’s [dad’s mom] uncle. His 90th birthday was celebrated. And I went for the celebration. Lucky I am. I could be one of the reasons for that old man’s smile…
I learned from his words that it was his idea- to celebrate his own birthday. And throughout his conversation, he made it clear that none would’ve bothered to be with him unless this was organized! I was surprised to here him mention about nuclear family. My mom, another aunt and some other ladies [relatives-relation I will never be able to learn this lifetime] and I, had to admit that nuclear families spoil the joy of togetherness….
He could not walk properly; many were there to help him. Good food, people and frequent, but weak rain…all made the day beautiful. Many were invited, but only a few could be there. I know there’s nothing special in this situation, it’s the same everywhere. Every family in this century faces this. The sense of belongingness between people is draining out. But where do all these changes take us to? Old generation behind the bars of old-age homes and children in hostels. Man in one continent, his woman in another!
I had to leave the place soon after lunch. Had to force my dad to take me to his place which was half an hour’s drive away! The land where he was born. The land that fed him with most delicious fruits, fresh air, clean water and above all, love and care unlimited. He grew up in the lap of nature in its fullest form. Even now I wait impatiently to listen to the stories of, oh no, the realities he had during his childhood. His mother’s sister, who is of his age, narrates those incidents with great passion. That passion, I too, luckily carry in my blood. Passion towards ancestral land, life and spirit!
Our ancestral house is no more. I was accompanied by my dad’s cousin who’s of my age! We went for a stroll. I wanted to capture a few shots and pick the seeds of different varieties of mango. For the first time in my life I went in search of the seed, not the fruit. Everything begins from its seed, fruits follow!
The monsoon was weak and not many dark clouds showed up in the sky. But I could listen to the sound of crickets. I would rather call it music, not just sound! They generate life for the surroundings…. We were walking.
Our journey had a good beginning, we spotted an orange. Let me turn a bit sentimental, I love to believe that the fruit was pulled down by my ancestors who are no more… do I belive in ghosts? I’m not sure…but presence after death is something I’ve longed for. The vacuum that was created by the death of my grandparents still prevails. I believe, it’s one of them who pulled that fruit for me… for me, this grandchild who’s destined to live in a decaying world! The fruit was big and delicious as usual. We picked some seeds. We spoke about present and glorious past. We realized that we were missing something important.
Our journey ended in our relative’s house. The very thought of the location of that house makes me jealous. The evenings I’d spent there, I can never forget. And anything that prevents me from enjoying that, I can never forgive…. They practice agriculture. They have a dairy farm and five doggies guard their property. My friends there- uncle, aunty and their son, always welcome us with open heart. Three of them, I feel, carry the spirit that I hold within myself. Uncle and aunt in the case of hospitality, and their son, in case of love for nature!
I remember and live those memories. They use to collect he nest of weaver birds. Nests beautifully woven. No skill or talent of human can recreate those nests- I bet! I love to sit in the veranda of that house watching the evening sky that ends at the border of the paddy field in front. Cool breeze would stroke my hair crating that uncertainty in the air. That uncertainty or secrecy in the air is something that binds me with this land. That quality I have adopted to be my character, keeps me away from many, but that makes me different- uncertain, unpredictable for those who haven’t learned me!
It was time and ‘Cinderella’ had to go…. I waved good bye. Though short the parting was, I had tears hidden in my eyes. It’s not just to the people there, but the land and its air. I could easily feel happiness being drained out of my heart. Soon it rained, heavily. Monsoon was no weaker….
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