My 'Ilavenil'

As I sit here in this stuffy office room
I remember
Her sweet face, warm charm, her laughs in starts,
Her prattle, her poise
She cries not, for she knows I ain’t near
And she should not be of mess
She knows, yet she pines, looks around forlorn,
For me, her mother, I know
Helpless, I browse her snaps
Equally lost, as she is.
I am cluttered, and bruised,
Yet I try hard to piece in my love for her
I fear the hand that will snatch her
If it does,
Remember, my child,
Wherever you be,
In whosever arms, in any lap,
Your mother waits with a world of love
To show you how open the universe of the heart is.
I wish to walk you through the sands,
And later, take help to walk through the same path
How much we can learn thus, and feel
To be one, with ourselves and the air
Sweet Child, I love you,
not coz I am your mother
Words fail, tears swell, when I think
Of you, and then me
My mind melts as subtly as your touch
It wanders yonder from where you came,
Child of God, will you tell me, of my abode
How much I long to be back, the free ether to breathe
I now get it all
My writhing pain She sensed
And lo, here you are
A whiff of fresh air from the world Divine
You’re my mate, that God send
My essence, my mind.
I love you
Because I desire to live and love
You remind me that there is afterall
Something called love

By me....

Growing in love

Another stint is on its crawl to a finish. At Amrita. How many more? Yesterday was Vishu. I asked Him for a special kaineettam. Told Him that was that. A new beginning. In the very literal sense. Existential sense, to be precise.

There were many such finishes. First was when I used to count days to go to ammoomma during vacations. We were in the concrete woods of Mumbai and she was in 'then God's-Own' Kerala. I still remember her wetting my shoulder on that day (another finish) when we were to return to work, school and 'life' after my sixth class vacations. During the two months I was with her, her routine used to be mine. She would wake up at the 'goddamn' hour of 4.30 a.m. and wash herself in icy waters of a ghastly well. The mornings would make the waters icier. Have cursed her for that, yet have stood with her through the 'trauma' of waking up at that hour, drenching myself and then tucking under her arm before a lit lamp and chanting 'harinamakeerthanam'. She taught me the first 10 slokas of the many slokas. I still know only them. My rituals ended there. With her. Now I don't know when time strikes 4.30 a.m. Lit night lamps cheat me from the joys of the lights of dawn. There are no wells to draw water up from. And a heater strips water of its virgin chill. And me of innocence. Well, sleep too, is a bliss, though. Like ignorance.

The only thing I did that ammoomma didn't was probably roam around the afternoons when she would be in her much-loved siesta. I would tour the kitchen for eatables specially made for my glutton cousins and hike up mango trees that would be laden by then. Then there were the vagabonds (as my grandpa called the neighbourhood kids) who were my closest pals. There was a spot not far away from home from where the lake was visible. There was also a space near where time stood still. To be my love.

May be I learnt my first lessons in love from there. Nature was fiery, yet alluring. It was sublime, too. The women who used to come home for karthika and thiruvathira had a bit of it in them. I used to watch them dance and prance about. At times, I tried to be like them. But never won. I was always on the other side. Kiddish, agile and stupid. Sans all grace. Yet what I love is grace. For things I love are grace.

That morning when we were to return, I was aghast at the grace the woman had. She was in her early sixties, yet her charm took me over. I loved her may be for her sheer beauty. She was very beautiful. So much that in her youth many came seeking her. Her friends equated her to the then reigning Travancore sisters. I was proud that she was my grandma. She was crying. Tears streaming, she asked me to stay back the next year I came for vacations. "Don't go back. You can study here. I will teach you lot of songs," she said. I loved the words. It soothed me. It gave me hope. Back in Mumbai, every day was a year. I longed for a glance of Kerala, for that would mean be close to her, at least for a moment. Now she tells me to come to her. I smile, hug her close and take a kiss from her. Her kiss has this special scent. Of milk, or is it of the mountains?

Well, the day when I would run back to her never came. She vanished in a month. My friend (time) snacked on her for tea. I was informed much later, and all the while I wrote long letters to her asking her to wait for the time when we would be together. I am still waiting. Unkempt. Unloved.

With her gone, Kerala became a piece of land. Love for Mumbai grew as friends came along and took me to the hieghts of romantic ecstasy. I fell more and more in love with love. It healed the wound she made in me. I wanted to stay put. But that was not to be. Another finish was imminent. I rushed to the classroom in that 100-year-old college...where we saved a pigeon from getting stuck in the fan. Where we wrote and sang together. Where we made fun of girls and boys. Where again...time had stood still. College to me is still that one gallery room. Me, my urmi (will she care to read this taking break from her goddamn chemistry research), Kaushik (who might now be touring the Congo), Meghna, Vishnu, Preethi... Oh I didnt want to leave them. Yet I did. To leave for a now-hated land. Coconut groves. Gods in air. Demons on board. Hate abound. I searched for love there, but only heard tales of it. Tried to nurture love. Failed. That was the next finish.

Then there were stops...Chennai, in Coimabtore...where there was love abundant. Why is it that I find love in cities notorious for hatred? But I was value-struck. Shouldn't I be loyal to love? I didnt even realise I got it all wrong. Delhi was another disaster. Though I found love in myself there. There were sojourns. National Museum, Art galleries, Bahai temple, CP streets, Kerala club, ice cream jaunts with Tony, times spent with Sachin, Misha Pillai, Ritu, Ambika, INS canteen and long walks around Parliament Street. There was companionship, too, but it was laced in a bitter sense of indifference. It finished there.

In Kochi, I walked to love's pace. There was this feeling of belonging, everywhere. I belonged to the place. To the words I wrote. And the one I loved. I didn't have love. I was love itself. Finish came as Amrita. I was reluctant. Yet I had made a promise. THE WEEK had to end.

Amrita was a good run. Care, it eluded me here. Love, I sustained. We went about in thin air. For a change, it wasn't time, but the mountains that froze for me. I went back to the gallery classroom. Now it is winding up. For a new chapter. My mind will linger on, in these mountains, my love ingrained on them.

As life's charm drains with every passing hour, I just hope with every finish my quest grows. To be remebered as the one who loved love.
          

To my love divine...

Two years since I walked with Him,
Seems like yesterday though,
He called me his love divine,
I called him mine
And time went on.

He brought me home to peace,
I lost myself there
First to the divine,
And then to Him.
Time picked up speed.


The air and the winds,
The roads we trekked,
Told us to rejoice,
Despite the odds.
Time began its race.

He sheltered me from pain,
And the rain,
Told me to live,
In his love,
Time whroomed.

We fought,
And made,
And cooked,
And ate,
We drank,
And slept,
Till Time raced past.

He brought me,
To the mountains,
Taught me to climb,
He showed me the hill,
And loved me there,
To make it too divine,
Time slowed to look.

We were in elan,
Being lovers of space,
We ran around,
In mirth and joy and pain,
Time looked on.

Then came they,
Calls of the bounteous world,
Their colours bright,
Their tastes tempting, 
He stopped to see and sense,
And I was left alone,
In light,
And Time cried.

I lost my nerve,
I shrieked in pain,
I killed myself,
I called for help,
Time was helpless.
 
He felt my tears,
He sensed my cry,
The divine stabbed,
He saw the blood,
And its colour, love.
Time fainted.

I called out to him,
He couldn't but come,
To help me live,
Take me home,
Again, to peace.
Time smiled.

I lived again in divine,
I went, yonder,
Away from the world,
Time sighed.

He came in search,
Calling me my name,
The love divine,
I became love.
Time stood still.

There is this guy i know from my PTI days (they weren't long back, if that is what comes across from the tone. they were just three years ago.), who used to walk with me back from shift and coerce me into eating ice creams with him. I was a (psuedo) anti-MNC then and always used to go for Amul or the very local Mother Diary ones and he, the kind of Hinglish kiddo that he was, always grabbed a Kwality Walls or ...whatever. And he wrote about me and "my love for ice creams" in PTI's work blog and whoosh....I felt all the more encouraged to gulp down more. All the while thinking, "Oh Tony is so ccccuuuutttteee.... (unlike some of the men in the 'constipated' place....well, now I think it was just my thought. Sorry folks.) Today after long, I bumped into his blog...tony2cool...and seems like the Tony I knew has graduated... from shimpy shimpy ice cream and chocolate talk to....SEX. Wow. He has some fabulous revelations on his blog on how he came to know of the forbidden fruit. Well, Tony, if you will ever read this....whatever or however you feel of what or what not in this world, dont ever forget the walk back to bus stop after the 8 am shift and the ice cream sessions. The ice creamwallah knew us so very by our sight that whenever i used to be alone, he used to ask ...apke dost nahin aaye? And I used to say ...nahin...unka afternun shift hai... And to keep his spirits, I would order a cone.
Can't forget those steaming hot and icy cold days of Delhi and the Parliament Street lanes just for some memories like these. The others are tagged to our Mayur Vihar hostel with all fun, frolick, anger and of course the 'naive silliness' of our very naive Misha Pillai. And the days I shared with Ambika Pendharkar, who must now be raking in marital bliss. The 'very literary' chats I had with the 'very literary' Anima Balakrishnan and the love for life and fun I shared with the gorgeous Bong babe Rituparna Bhowmick. And the silent camaradrie I had with the mag man Sachin Gogoi, who still is a friend for life, and the 'very brotherly' love I had for big dada Debjit Chakrabarty. Of course how can I forget my Swaty, a woman in every sense of the word .
Within PTI, it is DKG's pompous talk, Vinod's mellifluous singing as he found his way through foreign copies and Ritu Sharma's and Richa Tyagi's "I care two hoots" attitude that stays evergreen. These are the things that made me feel, at least sometimes, that the I in me is not completely dead. Otherwise, Delhi was the place where I was on a foolproof act...to please and to gain love.... But in the pursuit, I lost myself. I could have gained so many friends and good moments with my real self...had I not been on that act. I would win otherwise, too, keeping away all those factors that prompted  me to act. This post is thus an apology to all my friends who I purposely shut out...Avishek Roy, Sumit Upadhyay, Zeeshan Sheikh, Shemin Joy, SDG, Sukanya, Mriganka, and most of the seniors who I knew I could be friends with. Love you all.

Breathe free

Let me sleep, for my soul is intoxicated with love
Let me rest, for my spirit has had its bounty of days and nights
Light the candles and burn the incense around my bed
Scatter leaves of jasmine and roses over my body
Dry your tears, my friends, and raise your heads as the flowers
Look at the bride of Death standing like a column of light
Between my bed and the infinite;
Let the virgins come close and see the shadow of God in my eyes,
And hear the echo of His will racing with my breath.

The Ascending

I have passed a mountain peak and my soul is soaring in the firmament of complete and unbound freedom;
I am far, far away, my companions, and the clouds are hiding the hills from my eyes.
The valleys are becoming flooded with an ocean of silence,
And the hands of oblivion are engulfing the roads and the houses;
The prairies and fields are disappearing behind a white specter
That looks like the spring cloud, yellow as the candlelight and red as the twilight.
The songs of the waves and the hymns of the streams are scattered,
And the voices of the throngs reduced to silence;
And I can hear naught but the music of eternity In exact harmony with the spirit's desires.
I am cloaked in full whiteness; I am in comfort; I am in peace.

The Remains

Lament me not, but sing songs of youth and joy;
Shed not tears upon me, but sing of harvest and the winepress;
Utter no sigh of agony, but draw upon my face with your finger the symbol of love and joy.
Disturb not the air's tranquility with chanting and requiems,
But let your hearts sing with me the song of eternal life;
Mourn me not with apparel of black, but dress in color and rejoice with me;
Talk not of my departure with sighs in your hearts;
Take me not to the crowded burying ground lest my slumber be disrupted by the rattling of bones and skulls.
Carry me to the cypress woods and dig my grave where violets and poppies grow not in the other's shadow;
Take from me all earthly raiment and place me deep in my mother earth; and place me with care upon my mother's breast.

Leave me then, friends - leave me and depart on mute feet,
As the silence walks in the deserted valley;
Go back to the joy of your dwellings and you will find there that which death can't remove from you and me.
Leave me.

---Kahlil Gibran

I am a big farce
No truth in me
Just a bundle of horrible nerves
And a tongue that wags
I am a big farce
Too costly for life
A daughter and sister I am
A mother, too
Of no particular use
I tried a wife's part
And failed, with elan
A journo I tried being
And messed up with finnesse
Now am I here, in this school
Trying to teach shit
Finally, I said love divine
But divinity... too scared of me
Death finds me tough
Else why should it elude

ambalapravu... my mother's house had an inner room, which we used to call kizhakemuri which was used by my uncle, who was then in college. he was quite naughty, and was a rebel, more so because he was affected by polio when he was just nine months old. in his room, on the ceiling, which was done up in wood, there was a puttering sound heard and elders at home said, it was the ambalapravu that has nested there. "Oh, remove it, else, it will bring the house ill-luck," many said. I was just five and remember, some men climbing on to the ceiling and pulling the nest down. "Oh, ithu muttayittu," they said. It had two small birds, newborns, and a few eggs. I saw a big bird, looking at the men doing all that from a distance. It kept puttering in a low sound. I asked grandma what will happen now, She didnt say anything. The men there said, the young birds either will die of starvation or will be taken away by crows or other birds. The eggs, they didnt know. May be eaten by reptiles. The mother bird will not come claiming. As once touched by someone else, it'll abandon its eggs and little ones. That was the law.I suddenly remebered the mother bird sitting watching her young ones being torn apart from her. Did her heart cry when she witnessed men and the law tearing her kids from her? How must she have felt at the men and the law? She must have cursed the moment when she found the attic the place for a good home. Where must she have gone? There was a story of a bird my grandma once told me. Of a mother bird who asked her little one to fry cherupayar, after counting the total number of grains. The little bird dutifully did it thinking her mom will be happy. but when the mother bird came back she found the number of grains less and began to peck her little one to death. then she counted a fistful of grains and began frying it, only to find it reduced. when she found she killed her little one for no reason, she beat herself to death. there was this poem by vailopilly on similar lines called mampazham. it talks about how the mother stopped her little son from playing with unnimanga. But when the fruit ripened over the season, the boy was no more. the mother thinks about it with a bleeding heart. Did that ambalapravu's heart also bleed when she found the men taking her nest away into the backyard? Did it cry thinking the dirty hands of law will prevent it from feeding its young ones even though it sees them dying of hunger? There is no bigger pain than watching your loved ones suffer. I think of the atrocities some heinoius men do on others in front of their kin and shudder. Imagine how the mothers must have felt when their daughters were raped in front of them in Gujarat. How the men must have felt when their kids and wives were burnt before them, how the brothers, the daughters must have felt when their... i hate to think of it. why can't we put ourselves in other's shoes to experience their pain? Why do we have to hurt, by word or deed? Is it necessary that to exist we must hurt? Why can't we be in a more sensitive world?

We walked all within ourselves.
The night was around us
And silence in every corner.
He kept talking and I listened.
There was no glances, no gasps, no holding hands.
He talked about lost love, his childhood, his unfinished book,
And in his every word, I found another me.
My past unwound, the lost love, the childhood, the book that lay unfinished in my mind.
And finally we parted; the night was growing.
I took an auto and he to get money
But I was still walking...
In it I found a friend, a soul sensitive, a mate
Or nothing… It’s beyond silly confines
Back home, he messaged to find if I reached safe
I did feel safe finally… with myself.
It isn’t the person, the talk, the walk…
It is what made me feel me
Somewhere within, a new me dawned,
Me that didn’t have the dark, the tears and the fears,
Me for whom love isn’t a territory…
It is itself, a free space, a voyage to infinity
I floated, amidst stars, with nothing to pull me down…
With the darkness of space around me
And the light from yonder stars…
Happy, easy and quenched I was
For I found love… which isn’t for a person or a thing
It’ll be in me till I live
And die with me when I die
I am glad I found it…albeit for a moment