Of mangoes and summer holidays

It really intrigues and surprises me that how our mind stores some of the images from past that we had, then, considered insignificant, like a photograph, it holds on to you forever.
Not so long ago, I visited my Jamshedpur home, the place where I grew up, in a small and dusty neighborhood. It was a new house then. I remember how I would spend my summer holidays painting the garage door, the window grills and the innumerous wooden doors we had. I would get tired and bored but then, I would resume again when I would see my dad painting them alone. We would, together, mend the walk of the small garden we had. The walk had a line of bricks planted angularly on the sides which he insisted should be painted red in color while I would suggest streaks of yellow and orange. Two bricks met the consequence after which I, again, grew bored.
Kept on the corner was an old wooden cupboard, which now has multiple layers of dust on it. Squeezed in this small cupboard is a world which has kings, queens, angels, daemons, Shikari Shambhu, Supandi, monkeys, crows, valiant warriors, righteous farmers, cunning crocodiles and many more. There were scores of Jataka Tales, accounts of quick witted Birbal and chronicles of Chanakya’s wisdom. It would make my heart heavy and my eyes moist to read about Karna’s and Abhimanyu’s tragic yet valiant deaths while Supandi’s hilarious interpretations of everyday chores would make me laugh. I would wonder how Shikari Shambu was able to see with his large hat falling over his eyes while Maharana Pratap left me mesmerized. Parents and grandparents alike, loved these unlike the Phantoms and the Mandrakes and the Betties and veronicas.

I have this one joke etched onto my memory which goes like this:

Suppandi’s master was going out.
Master: Suppandi , keep an eye on the dog.
Suppandi: Yes master, but..
Master: But What?
Suppandi: What do I do with the other eye??

Uncle Pi painted almost every child’s imagination in a big canvas with his Amar Chitra Katha and generations lived in the world created by him. If there’s one celebrity whose passing I have mourned, it is him. You shall be missed.

Television had so much to offer. Catchy jingles and the 12’o clock programs on Doordarshan, especially during summer holidays. The crafty paper bags that they used to teach us, the Baingan Raja’s beautiful attire and Raja Vikram’s tryst with the ghost Baital, who would to ask a question at the end of a beautiful story, baffling the King and would then go back hanging to the tree.
I leave you with this: I was especially very impressed by Dennis, from ‘Dennis the menace’ and would often spend hours looking into my shadow caused by the flickering candle after the power-cuts, pouting and puffing my cheeks to make it look like Dennis’s. =)

The Rose, The Snow and The Woods

The curtains were red, the door was closed, the bed-sheet black and there were roses kept on the table, beautiful and smooth. There were thorns beneath those thick and fleshy petals. Thorns so sharp that would make your fingers bleed so hard that you’d gasp for breath and faint into an abyss, perpetual and dark and narrow and quiet.

The petals are looking at him. They have a red splatter at the top which faints as they arch into the base, just like a red dispersed into an otherwise white sheet, just like warm blood drops on the white and cold snow. Dead snow, virgin snow, blood splatter, dispersion, a discordant harmony. The petals have shriveled and become loose at the base. So loose that a light puff of air can separate each one of them and make them fall from the table. They would dance as they go down, dance through their loneliness making small circles and turning around in the air, each one to its own, each one alone. They stop when they meet nothingness, the floor. Dead petals, dry and wry, ready to be trampled and walked over. They had once depicted love and affection, kinship.

He sees a very thin ray of light bouncing off the floor dodging the closed-door at the base, but, he doesn’t move and keeps looking at it with his tired eyes. It gets brighter and the intensity increases. Feeling the warmth, now he steps ahead and opens the door. Beautiful white light fills up the entire room and its warmth starts spreading to every corner. He can feel the brightness and the warmth flowing through every part of his physical body, healing him, rejuvenating him and caressing him. There is a dense forest right in front of him, calling him, inviting him for a celebration… They call it life.
He runs into the unknown singing to himself:

‘The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep’ – Robert Frost ‘

A pinch of Red

“What does red look like?”, she asked the old man sitting beside her, holding his parched, wrinkled palm with her one hand. The other hand wandered across his face, touching his long, gray beard sprinkled with some red, to his white moustache which had a green tinge today.

She is 40 now. It doesn’t matter. Not to her, not to anyone else. It’s a time capsule for her, a darkness, as perpetual as the perceived monotonicity of the human race. She wears frocks, and she loves collecting trinklets. Bangles, ear-rings, anklets, she loves them all, so much so that she would wear them all at once. She would beam with pride, and she would let out a smile that would tell you that she is ready to go for a party, that your eyes are fortunate enough to witness this sight, and that she is the most beautiful of all.

The old man looked at her. Two tiny globules materialized from the corners of his eyes, flowed and got lost in his thick grey beards. A lump developed in his throat while he made a futile attempt to speak. Clearing his throat, he chuckled at her ear-ring while she rebuffed him. “i’ll tell you what it looks like”, he said. His hands sneaked up her chin and tickled her neck. She quickly coiled up into a ball letting out a contagious laughter which filled the air around them. The old man hugged her and kissed her on the forehead.

The car outside has started honking. His son is getting late for work. The old man will have to leave now. Even though his back hurts, he somehow manages to stand and starts walking towards the gate with his eyes moist and his gait limp.

She now knows what does the color red feels like. It feels just like her father, his wrinkled palms, of love, of that harmless tickle, that peck on her forehead and that pleasant hug. She would like to have more red but she would have to wait for it. Diwali is nowhere near. “Nuns are not good”, she mutters to herself. She feels the pain as she touches the swell on her head. Who likes banging one’s head against the wall?

To my masi, who cannot see.

Bright Side of the moon

Eyes pop out and then go back to their slots,hands make a cup engulfing the chins, cheek flush to a fiery red as she heard him. The elegant simper which so used to characterize her was nowhere to be found as she let out a guffaw which infused some restlessness into the calm moon-lit night. Trees, the bright moon, the giddy stream, the dumb frog sitting beside the stream and numerous bugs contributed to the pristine beauty of the night. Continuous drones of the bugs used to stop occassionally leading to a lull.

The boy stood there, confused, perplexed, baffled. He looked incredulously at her. Nature, very unfairly, has blessed the fairer sex with neurons much more intricate and obstruse than a brain of a man can perceive. This was, precisely, what was apparent from the boy’s face. Gathering himself and after failing twice as words refused to come out of his mouth, he uttered,”I’m serious! “

It took a while for her to perceive the garbled words and she beamed at him with a warm kinship.

Those tears shone as the rays from the moon refracted. Words, they thought, are so unnecessary. Words can’t reach them! Hugs are known as the warmest form of expression, an expression which transcends all barriers and infuses one with overwhelming emotions. Words do little to replace it or even to improve it and they certainly didn’t need to speak. They stood there holding each other as night kept them engulfed while the moon kept hiding behind the clouds time and again.

Stars

Image source: http://www.la-star.com/p/pics/photo-stars/galactic-stars.jpg

People come and people go. Leaves you wondering is it the way its meant to be? You keep cruising ahead, often with a sore heart, moist eyes, a feeling that you are still not ready to let go, the feeling which is bound to get conquered as you keep flipping through the calendar, year after year. Conquered, as you meet strangers who then cease to be strange, go places you thought you never would, have a brand new life which you’ll cherish more when you’ll know its gonna get over again.

A feeling grips you and a realization dawns upon you. A feeling of being dependant on and handicapped without those loved ones and a realisation that you haven’t done enough, a realization that you have to make most of every moment and souvenir every possible souvenir you can gather. Some wise once said that you cannot count the stars in the sky and it is very true indeed. There might be some bright ones but you have to concentrate to see the old ones, in-numerous they are, just like memories. They are all there, you just have to strain your eyes. Lips widen, eyes sparkle, cheeks dilate upwards and you know that you’ve just spotted a star. Stars they are indeed..

Note: This was written when I missed my train to IIT, Bombay(read: boarded the wrong train ) for interview in April, 2009 and was stranded at the karwar station.