DOG WITH A FANCY NAME

You spoke of inflation in Greece
And quoted Nietzsche
You rambled on and on about
False consciousness and failing morality,
About the existential dilemma, the panic stricken world,
The excruciating futility of human life
And its uncertainty,
Half the things you said,
Flew over my head,
You stubbed out your cigarette, you sighed,
And when we were alone,
like all men, you begged for my flesh,
Outside our cold bedroom,
your imported pet from Europe
howled in the Indian heat,
And all I could think was,
How a dog with a fancy name, was still a dog

PERPLEXED

I wake from the dreams of
cotton candy and dragon flies
in hot afternoons,
long chases and mud on shoes,
from chalk powder on hands
leftovers from an attempt at
the unpolished canvas
before PT periods and sweat,
I forget the messages on greasy chits
and behind the brown papers
that enveloped my books,
back i am to darkness and sleep
now I trade nameslips with smiling supermen,
for a hand at the unfinished homework,
I hear voices telling me that H and O
leaves water, about constants
and variables of life,
about oxymoron and metaphors,
I read Dickens and Chekov
back home as dusk sets in,
I strain my brain and
sweat in the exam halls,
much like life, and the bell rings,
The dream is left in half,
broken, I would never know
how much I scored, I wake
to shakes and reality years after,
and stare at adulthood, perplexed.

ODIYAN : A Mallu Animagus/ Hitman

My mother belongs to what you can call a typical orthodox Malayali Nair Tharavadu which in my grandmother's time was a Naalukettu and her grandmother's time was an Ettukettu. For those who are not familiar with Kerala's cultural setting, a 'Tharavadu' refers to an Hindu ancestral home. Naalukettu, and Ettukettu( which is almost like a Naalukettu doubled, nalu being four and ettu being eight) is a traditional architectural style now on the verge of extinction. Nairs are a matriarchal society and the lineage passes from Mother to daughter. Unfortunately by the time I was born my mother's family had shifted from their orginal place which was 'Nelluvaya' to Trichur. The huge joint family was broken down into nulcear subgroups leaving the age old home with its huge 'Thodi' (frontyard and backyard combined) and sarpakaavu ( a sacred grove for serpents) to remain as fragments of memories, the backdrop of the very many stories or legends that runs in my family to this day.

When I was a child a good portion of my summer holidays was spent in rummaging the memories of my aging grandmother and her mother, who is thankfully still alive, to gather bits and pieces of my fading legacy. I constantly ransacked the 'Thattumpuram' ( somewhat like an attic) of my mom's tharavadu ( which is traditional but sadly not a naalukettu) looking for anything that could link me to that long forsaken home. I know for a fact that it doesnt exist now, the Naalukettu with all its pride and glory, though the saarpakavu is still preserved with yearly rituals. But somehow it still stands, high and mighty, in my imagination and continues to be an obsession.

The stories of the legendary 'Odiyan' are plenty in my family (skip the final two generations). He has always appealed to me more than his counterparts like Chattan, Kuttichatan, Gandharvan, Marutha etc. Odiyan is an indispensable part of mallu folklore. They are supposed to be people practicing black magic which helped them to acquire the shape of animals or things. To be more precise, though they dont physically change into anything, the intended victim while looking at the odiyan would be seeing a cat or a bull or a rock or anything that the odiyan wants. The power of the odiyan was so immense that any physical contact with him could result in instant death. He could charm you as a harmless calf or charge at you as an angry bull.

I would classify 'odiyans' as hitmen of olden times. They were set up by rivaling uppercaste families and were paid for their services. The interesting hitch in the story is, while the 'marunnukootu' ie the ingredients for the secret portion and the way of preparing it was held secret by the so called upper castes, they themselves never performed the 'odividya' ( the art of the odiyans'). Instead they chose people belonging to the so called lower castes like Paanan, Pulayan and Chovan, taught them the rituals and stuff and made them do their dirty work. This was because apparently the person who practiced as an odiyan was bound to die sooner or later by his own sword.

The thing that gives me goosebumps about the odiyans is not their very concept or the eerie stories told by my grandma but the way they made their secret medicine. Legend has it that the odiyans made a secret medicine out of the fluid carrying the unborn fetus. This was mixed with some secret herbs to make some sort of an oil mixture which was then places behind the ears of the odiyan. The odiyan had his powers as long as the mixture was behind his ears. Some alternate versions however claims that the odiyans would appear as animals or things to everyone and not just his victim and that an odiyan can transform back to human only when his master or helper removed this oil from behind his ear with a special stick. What is even more creepy are claims about how these people charmed pregnant women and lured them from their homes in their sleep and slit their stomach to take the fluid. The woman would be found dead in her bed the following morning without any cut marks on her body. Creepiee... dont you think??

I would tell you a little odiyan story connected to my family now. This is about how my grandmother's grandmother died. Apparently she had a rivalry with some distant relative. Once when she had gone out to the temple pond at around 4 am in the morning she saw a calf, which kept on following her. Suspicious she skipped the bath and hurried back home. This calf kept on following her and started to grow bigger and bigger in size. The calf brushed against her and disappeared and she started sweating profusely. My grandmother's mother, ie her daughter, took her to her bed and she died that evening. There is another one about my grandfather. Once long back, while he was about 10 or 12 years old, he went to the field with this brother, who was around 8 or 9. This was again at around 5 am in the morning. They had their dog with them. When they reached the middle of the field the dog wouldnt let them move any farther. It blocked their way. After sometime they saw this huge ball of fire about the size of a man at around one feet from them. It glowed for a while and then circled the feild fast and started chasing them. Luckily they ran back home and nothing happened.

I know these stories sound silly and that the odiyans are now considered as nothing more than another manifestation of superstition among innocent village people. As time progressed, and modern education crept into villages emancipating the so called  lower castes, things like Odiyans and the beliefs associated with it disappeared. One can appreciate a thing or a belief like this only when we consider the time when it existed and its historical backdrop. I have never met an odiyan ( or any other ghost or paranormal being) in my life and I cant say for sure that such things exist. But nevertheless the Odiyan , appearing and disappearing on rainy evenings spent in my grandmother's lap, continues to be, for me, an enigma a mystery and a childhood friend. :)

The Kiss of a feather

I dont know what to write. But I know that I should write something,and that if I dont do it I might choke on this strange feeling blocking my throat and may be die of a heart burst( dunno if that is biologically possible, just my humble speculation).

There has been moments in my life where I have felt touched, moved. What am feeling now is somewhat similar to that, but not quite the same. I, along with two friends, have been visiting an orphanage near by my home for the last two months with the aim of teaching English to the kids there. I am having my vacations now and I thought I might as well do something worthwhile than sit at home and crib about the slow pace of time. It has always been like that for me. Time seems to stand still during vacations. And the only thing I usually do during holidays is to put on weight.

So there I was, set to change those kids to 'smart children speaking the queen's English'. But what I never foresaw was the change that this endeavor could bring to me. I know this sounds cliched. May be like those English movies in which the white heroine,a personification of the 'white man's burdern' that Kipling talked about, sets out to help the poor black people in nations like Sudan and Uganda and how inevitably the last scene of every such movie has to end with the heroine's self realization and change and blah blah. I am no heroine and the kids I mingled with were no embodiment of suffering or tragedies of life. Though I have to confess that that was somewhat my expectation - grief stricken faces looking for a helping hand.

They were normal kids. Ordinary, with shy smiles and loud laughters, but possessing hearts with such pristine innocence that they could with one look make the sophisticated and the so called privileged us question our genuineness. The most beautiful form of love is a kid's love. It is innocent, undemanding and unconditional. It is not selfish or jealous. In that orphanage, I could see it. I could see the feeling of which I had read only the scriptures and certain sappy novels conveniently borrowing ideas from the holy books.

I have never faced a shortage of love in my life. Never. Though many times, being my silly self, I have felt I don't have enough of it. There I saw kids with so much love and kindness in their hearts that I cant claim to have in mine. They dont know what life or god or destiny has deprived them of. Or may be, they do. But they dont crib.I have never,not even once heard a kid crib or complaint there. Neither about the food nor about a friend who borrowed the only doll he/she had and never returned it nor about studies. They taught me that a single eclairs can be divided to more than 15 pieces. They taught me that it doesnt matter if the food is not served hot or if the tea lacks sugar. That it is not important if you clothes are a little too old or frayed at the borders. Life is still good and we are blessed.

They ask me about my parents. Each day as I leave they would ask me to convey my regards to them. Invariably. And each day the moment they saw us at the gate, they would stop their play and rush to tell the details of the breakfast, or the dog that wouldnt stop barking at night or the new flower that has blossomed in their garden or who had done the homework first. I have never felt more wanted in life before.

Today was my last day with them. They had arranged a programme for me and my friends. They "spoke English welcome speech". Performed a skit. Danced and sang for us. And send us off, with a beautiful handmade card for each of us and a token of their love. There were wishes and smiles and hugs and kisses. And tears. The kids crowding around us as we started to leave. So many of them. So much of care. And their love serene, flawless, like the kiss of a feather.

I dont know if I will ever see them again. But I know that I wont ever forget the love that I found there. In the place where I expected it only in trace amounts. And the thing that the kids taught me. Much more important and valuable than my English lessons. The ability to appreciate life. They have it. Do we???

STRANGERS

We speak like strangers
in strange tongues
not making sense,
We smile with lips,
while eyes stray like
hungry dogs on streets

We whisper in our thoughts
and look at each other, surprised,
We are strange strangers
who know every word of
each others history.

We dont speak anymore,
we who spoke everyday
in the past, and
laughed like fools,
unaware of a treacherous future.

THINGS FOREVER

Does time heal all wounds? A couple of years back, I was upset over some reason and one of my closest friends told me, " It really doesnt matter you know, Two years from now you are not even gonna remember this''. Well, three years have passed. Quite eventful I must say. And new memories have replaced the old ones. "Replaced'' may not be the apt word. It is more like a pile of junk. Each day another load is added on top of the previous ones. But it doesn't mean ones deep down dont exist. They do. And some of them are non biodegradable- they dont rot. They lie there waiting. And at times, when the days can be best definied as jobless, some fool (I realise the irony.. gah!) would take a stick and dig it up, bit by bit, slowly, searching for some diamond lost in the junk pile. But anyhow, diamonds are hard to find. It is these non biodegradable peices of useless plastic that is thrown enough and more on our way.

Vaccations are the time of the year when I suffer from bouts of bittersweet memories bombarded consistently on my brain cells. Like for instance I was ransacking my bedroom the other day and guess what I found. Under piles and piles of books was lying my old tenth standard physics record . Even the cover was intact. Well, it was just a lifeless book that was in my hands then, but what it handed over were living ghosts of dead memories. I observed how my handwriting had changed over the years, just like me. How the 'f's and 'h's had gained height and the 'g' had lost its fancy tail. The hurriedly copied diagrams and observations ,the blotch of ink that had become the reason for a fued with a dear friend, the smell, the brown cover with Harry Potter happily smiling on it- everything. Just everything coiled around me like tentacles. Dragging me back.

Sometimes, the things that surpise us the most are the things that are most obvious. I kept the book aside and looked at the mirror. The physical change was apparent. It was the mental transistion that stunned me. Each day, each moment we think. Yet most of the times we hardly notice the change in our thoughts, the way we think, the change in our values, priorities, objectives, the change in us.

But no matter how we change, each experience, everything we do or is done to us leaves a part of itself within us. These invisible traces are the non biodegradable junks I was talking about earlier. They stay. They are meant to stay and can never be naturally removed. They are like invisible strings. They influence us. Control us. Our thought process. They are beyond time. May be it is time that makes them invisible. But it can never kill them.

As I was saying. This particular incident happened 3 years back. I cant say " 3 years are over. Yet I remember everything. Afresh.'. NO. Ofcourse I dont. But there are a few things that I remember. A few things that really matter. The few essential things. The non bio degradable parts of the complex whole. And I know no matter what happens I am going to and going to have to remember them ( As long as I dont catch Alzheimers that is..heh heh..).

So does time heal all wounds? Does time completely wipe of incidents that matter? I dont think so. It just doesnt work that way I guess. Some other things are also meant to stay forever. Not just the diamonds.

ONCE BITTEN, TWICE SHY

"Last Christmas", has been one of my all time favourite songs. I love the video, the lyrics, the rhythm and just everything about it. Yesterday I was just randomly listening to it when something struck me. It was this age 0ld idiom which comes in the lyrics of that song- once bitten, twice shy.
Very true, dont you think?

It is possible to really be naive again, when once we are bitten badly? I don't know. Does forgiveness and giving someone a second chance essentially mean the same thing? Come on, not many people can trust the same source of hurt or deceit a second time, can they? Being from a semi-christian background ( i will elaborate on that on a different post), I have been taught to forgive.God says, " Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us". I honestly feel confused. Am I just being a bad person when I refuse to trust again or is it just human? I look at my three year old cousin who has completely and absolutely refused to touch the candle ( Even when it is not burning!!) after she got a small burn around 6 or 7 months back. I feel like Arnie in "What's eating Gilbert Grape" taking his refusal to touch water and my refusal to give second chances.

May be it just the fear of taking risk. Rather, may be it is the subconscious fear of having to hold oneself responsible for all that could go wrong. Or may be it just being paranoid and shitty. A mistake is a mistake only the first time you make it. It will be a crime the next time. And here it will be a crime against oneself. It is almost suicide. If a person cheats you once, it is his mistake. If a person cheats you twice it is completely and totally your mistake. A fool is one who trusts strangers. A greater fool is the one who trusts false friends. I would rather give a stranger a first chance that a cheat a second chance. What do you feel?

Is this cynicism? In the never ending twists and turns of this confusing life how many times can we afford to take risks? It is like walking on a tight rope tied at the edges of two cliffs. Yes, life is that in short. You should enjoy the sights and the breeze you see. You should smile.It is important.But it more important to keep control. Over every single step one keeps, every breath one takes. It is important to maintain the thin balance that helps us move forward. Cheats are the occasional slips we face. Would you honestly keep your feet at a point that has been very shaky in the past or has a reputation for it? Would you let yourself fall? Specially when, as my dear friend Sandhya says, it is a fall with no safety nets? Would you?

I am confused. I cant as of now. But I don't know the correct answers to the moral questions behind such a decision. Once a person proves that he or she possesses no integrity, it is best to keep a distance. Anyway, this is desert rose's theory. Feel free to accept or oppose it.

Well, I am back to listening to "Last Christmas". Pausing occasionally like this, to pen my crazy thoughts in the form of a poem or prose. Well, it does make sense at times. Dont you think? When we act a particular way even without knowing why we do it. It is gut feeling really. And I know many would chose the path I have so 'wisely' chosen. Why else would they say, Once bitten twice shy !!