The winged visitor...

Often times these days, i wake up to the sounds of conversations. Real ones. These aren't from the hidden recesses of memory, that deny you the peace of sleep, and the seeming calm of the todays and the yesterdays. These are benign conversations. "I just gave you a Dosa right? What are you still hanging around for?", my mom would say. I'd enter the kitchen, sleepy eyed, to find her in the middle of an earnest conversation with this particular crow. The responses vary. Sometimes we'd just get 'Caw Caws' in varying tones and decibel levels. At other times the crow would poke it's beak in, through the ample gaps in the kitchen's window grill, and take in the scene, before returning to it's pleas. A little louder. A little more demanding. I've come to recognize this crow. You need to pay attention to tell one crow from another, unless it has a broken beak or an absent foot.

In the belief system that i was born into, crows are considered 'pithrukkal', which in sanskrit, means fathers and forefathers. Despite my being an agnostic and my conscious attempts at being rational about things, i can't help making the connection. In an existence with so many unknowns, i find it increasingly difficult to be absolutely sure about anything. To be absolutely sure that crows are just crows. And so i indulge the crow. Whenever he flies in. Seeking food, attention, and an update on how things are at home. I feed him half an idli, a piece or roti or a full appalam. Anything that's around. Appalam being his favourite. Of late we've even started exchanging pleasantries. And he is beginning to find me familiar enough to pick pooris off my palm...

Confessions...

A man's worth must be measured by the number of people who come for his funeral. Not the ones who come out of courtesy. Or those who are fulfilling a formal obligation by coming. But the ones who have the urge to look at him one last time. The obscure ones whose presence is largely ignored. The tailor from the street corner. The cycle shop owner two streets away. The mechanic who always mended his struggling scooter. They did not enter his home and offer condolensces. But they were all there during the cremation. Scores of them. Standing in random nooks. Unnoticed. Paying their respects. And leaving as silently as they arrived. He had never realized that his Father had touched so many lives. The gravity of what he had lost would come to the surface much later. He was far removed from the catastrophy he was in the middle of. Insensitive, if you may. But life would change irreversibly. The bridge across to his sister would be broken. His fault. He was an escapist coward. Hiding away in the safety of his hostel. While his sister picked up the pieces, confronted the demons, and held things together. The bridge has been mended since. Bonds re-established. But some mistakes don't deserve a second chance. He was fortunate to have one.

It would be quite a while before he realized the enormity of the loss. He would do it alone, in his hostel room. He would find unlikely allies in P and N. The guys who included him in their fold when he was at the point of losing it. It is strange how the toughest of times forge these strong bonds. Or break seemingly strong ones.

It has been over ten years now. Some snapshots keep coming back. Bicycle lessons on a rented bicycle, 50 paise per hour, two siblings quarreling over whether a 10-minute slot was over, and a fair dad playing judge. An unexpected Hero-Unibike gift to two very delighted kids. Cricket on the terrace. Cricket in the Hall. Dips in Cauvery marked by failed swimming lessons. Early morning scooter lessons, and how his dad wouldn't panic or let him panic when the gravest of mistakes were made on the road. Shuttle in the garden with Mom's saree for a net. Home grown chillies and tomatoes, and at one particular time, even maize. There were no fancy shoes or expensive clothes. No birthday parties and other such frills. But he and his sis would go to the best of schools. Live in nice homes. However bad business was, however tight finances were. His dad always knew what was more important and what wasn't. Always neatly dressed, hair neatly combed, a battered sandal colore suitcase in hand, an asthmatic sneeze as accompaniment, his dad was so full of energy and life, a compulsive optimist, a dreamer who shielded his kids from reality. He would think back of his dad with fondness and a sense of pride. And guilt. And bestow upon him the kindof respect he deserved. A little too late.

Happy? New year

It is a little late in the day. It is all manufactured anyways, so whats the big deal...for whatever it is worth

new year wishes to anyone who drops by...

 

New year eves were so much fun back in Trichy, when i was a school kid...Dad was this social butterfly...

some 7-8 neighbouring families would get together at my home (ofcourse i chipped in for the PR work, but Dad

was the prime mover)...there were quite a few kids who were kindof peers, and we managed to have some real

good fun.

 

Back then festivals were fun as well...one of the first things i used to do every Jan was to check how

far away Diwali was. During Diwali, we had this undeclared contest in our street for bursting the 1st cracker of the day.

Almost every time, it was won buy this school senior of mine called Jayashree, who lived in the last house in our street.

Her standard cracker-time was 2:30 am...cant beat that. I never made a real effort to win it, but even i used to be up by

3:30 or so. During the day, everyone went around everyone else's houses eating free sweets (we had to offer sthing different,

dad was an out-of-the box thinker..so we would give visiters salted-boiled peanuts...and that would be such a relief for the

sweet-weary tongues).

 

And Pongal (Shankranthi) meant getting up early to walk the streets of Bhelpur (the colony where i lived) to have a look at the

rangolis (entries for Bhelpur's rangoli contest, we never won it). There would be this colony-wide competetions. Mom used to

sing (and some of use used to cheer for her, she was good, and won it a couple of times)...Dad used to sing too (and i would

be embarassed...he wasnt particularly good, but was a good sport)...and at times Sis used to sing too (she was good). I was

never anything more than an onlooker, except the one time when i came 2nd in the musical chairs contest:)...

 

Coming back to now...festivals have ceased to matter...sometimes it is good to be part of a whole, to celebrate when everyone

else celebrates, and not question it or reason it out...except that i cant get myself to do it...at times i envy people who have

managed to retain the idea of festivals and celebrations...ppl who, on Diwali day, get up early, bathe, wear new clothes, and pray

and eat together. I am not sure if i can ever be that again.

 

It is not just about festivals. As a kid, i used to go to this temple in our colony daily, and it felt good. Even in college i used to

go to our college-temple almost daily. Now, i think of God as man's creation, as a replica of some kindof external conscience. So

prayer and God have ceased to appeal to me. I dont find it reasonable to go to a temple or pray or do anything that involves delegating

your problem to someone besides yourself. This is surely the right way to live, but this has taken away a pseudo-crutch that i could've

used at times.

 

Like that guy in 'Matrix' says, sometimes, ignorance is bliss.

Sadly, the path from ignorance to realization is one-way.