Another Day, Another time...Another story

An experiment in lavendar

2006-11-01T09:09:00.000+11:00

A recent trip to the Lavendar Farm in the Barossa Valley (the wine region of Australia) sparked off these pictures. I do not have an eye for camera asthetics by any means, so these are to be treated like experiments, heck they are experiments.
The air is redolent with the sharp tang of lavendar, till where the eye can see, the purple and lilac hues of lavendar mingle to create a palette, at some point on the horizon, the distant hills blend in too. The old gum trees have been around since the beginning of time, when you are around that long, you pick up a few secrets along the way, sometimes time waits for a while before she makes you her confidante.
Perched atop a lavendar hillock is an old gnarled bench, rustic in its appeal and unconspicuous in its manner. It was here that I settled myself for an hour or so and gazed at the purple flora till I could gaze no more. A mellow sun ruminated to himself, the heady scent of lavendar filled the air and lady in charge kindly offered me tea and scones. Sometimes life makes sense, at other times, we make do with memories of such times. ....

The way back....

2006-01-03T13:57:00.000+11:00

“How do you know you are home?”, he asked her one evening as the rain hummed its solitary tunes to itself outside their window. And she looked at the streaming rivulets on the greying window pane and told him that you never really know such things, you only feel them. He changed his question then for he really needed to know or to feel whichever way you looked at it and asked her how one felt such things. As the glistening rain drops slid down the waxy green leaves and cascaded to the ground, she asked him to name three of the most precious memories he had ever gathered. He was quite for a while and the rain with its patter decided to join the silence of their conversation.

And then he told her that his first memory was of lying next to the large water tank on the terrace of his old rambling home as the water made a curiously soothing, plopping sound as it made its way to a dark green circle on the roof, a soft indistinctive sound, not a sound of reverberation but a muffled one because there was soft moss growing in the area where the water met the roof. And he told her then, that in the throes of a scorching and unforgiving summer, if he listened long enough and hard enough he could hear the journeying water and he could almost feel the cool, cemented surface of the water tank between his palms.

His second memory he said was one of dusk when his mother used to light an oil lamp in the paved portico of their house as night was about to descend on their little garden. He told her that as the evening shadows lengthened and clear images became blurry outlines and the cicadas played their symphony outside his window, his mother tended to the little lamp each evening and trimmed the wicks that were fat with warm oil. And he told her then that on some evenings when a lone bird twittered in the high overhead trees above, he could smell the oil and see his mother’s hands cupping the flame as evening walked into his yard on stealthy feet.

And as she smiled he told her that his third memory was one of a solitary tune echoing across a lonely house at night as he paced his cramped balcony to see the girl of his dreams make an appearance, as she sang to herself behind curtained windows. She was the music and she was the creator of the music and he told her that she taught him that sometimes an unknown voice could give you the sweetest melody that you would ever hear.

“Now answer my question”, he said and she said she didn’t need to, he already had answered it himself. She as looked at his puzzled face, and she smiled a smile that came right from her heart and told him that home was where old memories lingered with a rightful place with no fear of them ever being usurped, home was where time could stand still because you didn’t have anywhere else you would rather be and home was where even incomplete dreams were beautiful because they were safe and nurtured.
Home was where anything could be beautiful because everything had possibilities.

He looked at her for a moment and then he looked away, and he noticed that the rain had stopped too, as if to listen to her. “I still don’t get it” he said, as he tried to take in her words. And she sighed and wondered if it were true then, that if you travelled far away and long enough, one day you forgot your way back.

Scarlett

Ramblings From Home Part II

2006-01-03T13:32:00.001+11:00

Ramblings from Home Part 1

In a crowded café, with Bollywood beats in the background and the whirr of a fan droning on, I exchange notes with buddies I haven’t seen in ages. This is S’s café and I soak in the hospitality, the gentle urging to try out yet another delicacy from his kitchen and the insistence that I should stay back and have yet another cup of tea. I pay him another visit a couple of days later, this time with the whole family in tow and he is hospitality personified. As we move to our last course, he joins us for us a cup of tea. Maybe it’s the food, maybe it is the delight of being part of a cosy Friday night crowd, and maybe it is the fleeting feeling that nostalgia is very often an indulgence, but somehow I don’t want this evening to end. “Why don’t you migrate to Australia?” I ask him as we sit there reminiscing tales of happy times. “You could set up a place like this”, I go on. All I am trying to do really is try and take a slice of the night with me. He smiles his famous slow smile, “I would have, I really would have”, he says and then in a gentle voice tells me “But I am already home”.

And it strikes me then that the most magical journey you will ever make is the journey home. When you think of it, home is not where you start off from…it is the destination really………

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I can now say this with absolute conviction, some friends never change, some relationships never die and the world doesn’t change as fast your perceptions of things. I spend two lovely days with my best friend in Bangalore. Somewhere in the midst of exclaiming our indignation over outrageous prices, giggling helplessly and sharing a joke, a sunset and an ice-cream we also manage to exchange stories from the soul while waiting in line to pay the bill. Just like that, with no epilogues and prologues. No frills and fancies, no excuses or justifications and no explanations. She buys me an expensive dress. “You cant”, I say aghast at the price tag. For a moment her voice softens as she tells me that we don’t meet often enough and that she wants to gift me something as special as the meeting.

Maybe I am jetlagged, maybe I have just realized how much I have missed her but my voice falters too. “We just have to meet more often, for ourselves”, I tell her. For a minute, she stares at me and then puts the dress back on the rack and shakes her head. “If we are going to be meeting more often, I’ll buy you something cheaper”.

It feels good, this mixture of deep laughter, a squeeze of the hand, a pat on the back and the bonding. Two parts humour to one part emotion, the formula works each time…

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I pull out my old dog-eared phone book and call R. R is one of my closest friends. We have been friends since we were about 3 years old and we have been in the same class from Kindy to the last day of Engineering. We share a brutally honest friendship…a friendship that at the end of the day is like an old pair of well worn shoes, nothing fancy but extremely comfortable. After the initial squabbling about who was supposed to call up whom, quick updates and long talks, it is agreed that he will come down to meet me, and he does.

The day is spent haunting old spots, downing cups of coffee and my playing agony aunt to nearly all his remarks. We laugh endlessly about our college days and we make it a point to remind each other of the many embarrassing situations, our “gang” as we liked to call ourselves back then, got into. Perhaps time has a way of magnifying things, perhaps the only fragments that remain are the ones mirrored in our hearts. I laugh till I am blue in the face when he recollects how I drove H’s no-brakes-no petrol-no stand and no horn bike home against all of H’s protests one rainy day when my own bike spluttered and died on the highway. I walk that road again, I see myself frantically trying to find the horn to avoid an oncoming buffalo, I see R turn up from nowhere, ride beside me and yell at people to get out of the way and I see H doubling with laughter as tears of mirth rolled down his face.

Somewhere deep inside, I chide myself for what was obviously a dangerous thing to do and I realize with a pang that after some time youth becomes decaffeinated………it is young but with none of the reckless abandon that powered it a few years ago, young with but with one eye on the road and the other on the destination.

And as R’s laughter joins mine, I am convinced that at the end of the day, a fond memory is the best gift you can give yourself……

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I am not good at goodbyes, never have been. I clam up and later spend ages trying to think of the things I could have said and the goodbyes I could have uttered but I am usually too eager to get past the unpleasant and uncomfortable phase and as a result, I detach myself from the surroundings. And so when the time comes to turn back and wave, when people, memories and slices of time become distant blurred outlines, fast disappearing from a momentum gathering window, I struggle with all my unsaid words. I crane my neck for a last look, I try to take in one last picture and when the picture fades and the journey begins, I lean back, sift through my memories and start reliving all that was.

And I learn yet again that you can’t really complete any journey………all that changes is the path and the direction you take………the times spent become your baggage and continue travelling with you.

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Epilogue : On the way back to Adelaide, I had a stop over in Singapore and though I couldn’t catch up with Sal and IW, I spoke to them on the phone.

Sal and I talked, giggled, talked some more and pretty much discussed all DSSers (Well most of them anyway), the dysfunctional family and made promises to catch up the next time she was in RooLand or I was in Singland.

IW (surprise, surprise) called me up, (and no, he didn’t introduce himself as IW, and he didn’t ask for ScaryT ) and talked, talked some more and decided that I was sufficiently confused due to the jetlag (I didn’t correct him).

And while I was beginning to get homesick a bit and while I am not good at transition, talking to Twinny and IW just helped me re-iterate what I had been feeling along………in the unlikeliest of places and when you least expect it, some people help you to gather memories and establish bonds. A feeling that can be quite amazing…and then quite, quite comforting.

Ramblings from Home Part I

2006-01-03T13:32:00.000+11:00

3 planes, 2 times zones, 10000 kms and 2 days later, a tiny 50 seater aircraft deposits me at the quaint airport in my hometown. I know I am home the instant I step off the plane on to the paved tarmac…the earth is red- a deep, nurturing, nourishing, welcoming warm red.
The abundance of mango, jackfruit and coconut trees tells me I am home, tells me that I am welcome and tells me that home is perhaps the only place where you don’t need to re-connect. You simply step back into the rhythm of things and pick up from where you left off, like you were always there and like you are never going away again.

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There is a knock at the door one rainy night when the clouds are chasing each other across the warm October sky. Thunder rumbles in the distance, somewhere a streak of lightening brightens up the glass panes momentarily. The knock is furtive, almost as if the caller does not want to interrupt the placid evening that lies unfurled within the confines of the room. I open the door to find a very apologetic Bhabhie on the doorstep. We have been neighbours for as long as we remember and we have seen the gradual metamorphosis of the little road from the time, there were only two houses on the street to today, when I can actually stand in the front garden, and count the number of strangers pass by.

The ageing process hasn’t spared Bhabhie either, her hair is thinning, she wears glasses and the row of glass bangles on her wrists doesn’t seem all that young anymore. Her eyes though are still the same, soft, kajal lined and like they have always been on occasions of reunions or partings, overflowing to the brim. We don’t need to talk, she looks at me saying precious little but the tears that are now threatening to spill over say it all: funny how a warm welcome has very little to do with words and actions.

I usher her in and she alternately fusses over me and alternately wipes her eyes. There is something comforting about being with someone who has seen you since you were knee high and we go through the whole gamut of school days, Uni days and everything in between and everything after, like we do everytime I am home. For a few moments I envy her for being able to be attached to someone in such an unfettered and giving way. Being able to stand up to your own tears, I often think, is way harder than standing up to anyone else’s tears.

And on that warm October evening with the thunder rumbling in the distance,as Bhabie joins our family at the dining table and joins in the laughter and the merriment, I feel thankful for the simple, steady presence that some people can have in your life and admire her ability to love someone throughout their absence as well as their presence. After a while, her laughter rings above the thunder rumbling in the distance.

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Its something that nearly classifies as the highlight of my trip, no trip home can be complete without a visit to Mama’s the friendly eatery down the road. Mama’s is spartan eating at its best, the walls are painted with bright blue oil paint, a hand written menu card is tacked onto the wall with the help of cellotape and if you raise your heels a tiny bit and look beyond the small shelf that serves as the area to place your orders, you can see mounds of chopped onion, coriander and loaves of bread all stacked neatly next to huge jars of “sev” and “papdi”.

For as long as I remember, mamaa’s was the place we went to when we had cousins visiting us during summer, mamaa’s was where we stopped for steaming got pav bhaji during the temperamental rain storms that always seemed to visit my town and mamaa’s was where you met to ruminate over bad grades, missed friends and the crush of the season. It was a strangely soothing environment; the sharp smell of the raw onions, the clang of the tiny steel plates, the sizzle of pav bhaji on the huge griddle, tea in white cups cheekily spilling on to the chipped saucers, the extra spicy vada pav and the endless talks, stifled giggles, and impromptu singing sessions cleansed and nourished your soul like you wouldn’t believe. It thrills me that nothing has changed, you still have to wait till you can squeeze in next to strangers, the menu is still handwritten, and yes Mamaa still makes vada pav that has to be eaten to be believed.

We are lucky because we get a table all to ourselves and as I go through the menu with the delight of a kid in a candy store, mamaa sees us and walks over. He enquires after us as he always does. “Have a nice long holiday this time, don’t rush back”, he adds. He has been saying this for as long as I remember, every holiday back home has been punctuated with this advice and I grin back. “The usual?” he asks and as I nod, he tells the waiter to get us some panipuri (without the raw onion offcourse). There is something to be said for a place where your likes and dislikes are remembered…I lean back and soak in the ambience. The first plateful makes me feel good about most things in life, by the time I have finished the second plateful I am at peace with most of the world and by the time plate number 3 is done, I am certain that I have stumbled upon the recipe for nirvana…

Amidst the din with the sweet, tangy, sharp taste exploding in my mouth, I know that a memory has been created and as I step out into the warm evening, it gladdens me that the more things change, the more they remain the same.

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It is not just people, homes age too. Perhaps you need to leave home to fully understand that nothing is spared from the ageing process. Perhaps the way you see things change, but somewhere on an hitherto untarnished wall, you now see a patch of peeling paint, somewhere on a well walked garden path, you notice that the rain doesn’t gush along as before but rather now stops to make a little puddle and suddenly, fleetingly you realize that time has been marching on to its own beat. There are new faces around the neighbourhood just as they are fewer older faces…sometimes this symbiosis between time and mortality numbs you, most of the other times, you are really too busy accepting it.

And just as you realize this, just as you struggle to learn this lesson, you see new shoots, new blossoms and shiny glistening leaves washed by the last downpour…and then suddenly it all makes sense, beneath the magic of these endless cycles of time is hidden a clockwork of cycles and patterns that include everyone in their iterations. Some lessons take a minute to learn and a lifetime to accept….

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To be continued…..

2006-01-03T13:31:00.000+11:00

Summer is almost here. I know this because when I turn the corner at the familiar cross roads, the heady whiff of jasmine greets me and tells me that brighter stars, sunnier days and cottony skies are going to visit sometime soon. But the jasmine is not my only messenger………there is a place in my heart that tells me what season it is and I suspect this has something to do with dormant memories that come into their own and take me on a trip down memory lane whenever they wish.

Memories, and I strongly believe in this, go through three stages, first they hurt, then they haunt and then one day they begin to heal. Sometimes they do this all at once………and I know this for a fact, for when the languid afternoons have their siesta outside my window and when a lone bird twitters to remind the world of its presence, I ache like the proverbial Peter Pan for golden summer holidays now relegated to dusty photo albums, and then I heal when I think of the simplicity of the childhood that was.

It doesn’t take me long to escape, all I need to do is close my eyes and like scenes from a sepia film unravelling, I see the dusty roads, gnarled mango trees, summer cubby houses and paper boats sailing down overflowing canals full with the first bounty of the summer rains. Summer was pitchers of “Rasna”, summer was reading Enid Blyton beneath whirring fans, summer was the distant and reverberating friendly shouts on hot, humid evenings till we were summoned indoors after a long day in the sun.

Summer was for catching up with cousins and for having mango eating competitions, summer was for songs sung with gusto on clear starlit nights and summer was for listening to All India Radio sitting on the patio late at night…there was always the friendly neighbour out for a late evening walk and there was always the friendly family from down the block walking back after an impromptu ice-cream session that stopped by for a chat.

When the first summer rains announced their impending arrival, there was the excitement of rushing out to get the clothes off the clothes line, and lingering around till a plump drop of rain teased you as it sloshed down past you to the ground. Long after the rains had disappeared after their quick visit, there was the walking around the neighbourhood with a best friend to hunt down the rawest and the tartiest of green mangoes that were later consumed with chilli and salt over giggles and secrets, as the evening shadows lengthened. Like melted icecream on dusty faces and fading hopscotch lines on garden paths that it was so full of, summer was a magical journey that brought forth a new adventure everyday.

One day just like that the season would change its moods, the summer holidays would end, bags would be packed, cousins given the fond farewell and the dog eared school books reclaimed from their holiday. Just like that school uniforms would make their appearance, and the monsoons would really and truly roar outside the windows and the summer just spent would find its way in a school essay and a letter written to a friend far away. But there was hope, for the cycle repeated itself…or atleast I thought it repeated itself.

It must have been gradual, now that I think about it, but there came an year when I left the dusty roads, the terraced house and the golden summer behind. It hurt first, it hurt because I learnt that you truly cannot walk some paths more than once…later it haunted me that the house and the summer and the garden I left behind were probably still going through nature’s serenade without me. And one day when a bird sang somewhere and disrupted the placid monotony of the afternoon, I suddenly realized that you never lose any summer you have lived and that the cornflower skies and the memories of the magical afternoons once savoured were forever safely encased in my heart. I also realized that my heart had its own seasons, waiting to be re-lived at will and that if I heard long enough, I could hear the muffled giggles, the patter of excited feet and clang of bicycles on the tarred roads that were hot with the unrelenting sun.

It was then that the healing began……

Autumn

2006-01-03T13:26:00.000+11:00

When autumn, glorious autumn with its russet coloured leaves, bare vulnerable branches and bleak rays of sunlight comes to visit, my mind makes its annual journey to a time and place now hazy. For hidden in the vivid but tired foliage is a story about a very old man and the lessons he taught a very young girl about watching and applauding while nature’s cycle ran her course.

For someone who grew up largely without the presence of indulgent grandparents around, my first meeting with the old man confirmed the idea that he could be a candidate for the probable post. And so we became buddies, the septuagenarian from down the road and five year old who latched on to him and his magical world of tales and anecdotes. That summer and for the many more that were to follow we roamed the neighbourhood and watched the heat take its toll on the sleepy side walks. Together we attempted to interpret our surroundings; we welcomed the profusion of flowers that arrived gaudily on the scene in spring, we stopped at one of the many little road side bonfires on cold wintry mornings during our meanderings, we watched the cottony clouds chase each other across the skies on languid days. We shared stories under the cornflower blue skies and watched the old mango trees down the road ready themselves for the first onslaught of the monsoons

He waited patiently in his rocking chair while I raced about in his front yard to collect the hail stones from the first hail storm of the year so that we could have our own special ice-cream. He cheered with me as we watched the muddy rivulets whisk away our paper boats and they disappeared around the bend in the road. He was there in his little balcony when I got back from school and when I had escaped from out of my Mum’s hands and presented myself at his door often in my school uniform with my shoe laces trailing behind me, he filled me in on the details of the day. The whole world seemed magical and as we went on our daily walks, sometimes to pick up the newspaper from the store across the main road, sometimes to see a local football match at the park down the road, he would firmly hold my smooth small palm in his old weather beaten and rough one and warn me about not letting go. Not that I complained for there was so much to talk and so much to see that I wouldn’t have gone away even if he would have asked me to.

On one such autumn day as I explored his sun dappled garden and ran my hand over the moss growing soft on the old whitewashed compound walls, he pointed out the bare trees to me with their brave golden yellow leaves. “Try pulling off one”, he suggested and I happily obliged. “Do you know why it comes off so easily?”, he asked and even before I answered, he continued “It has no resistance left, it is willing to go wherever it will be taken, it knows it needs to make way”. This didn’t sound nice at all, never before had I seen him so sombre and I didn’t like it. I let go of the leaf and it drifted to a pile of gold at the bottom of the tree. Till that point I hadn’t known that this cycle of seasons and colours had an element of finality in it and I wasn’t sure I liked this revelation. He must have seen my confused downcast face, because he gently put his arm around me and smiled and said “It has had its place in the sun, and unless it moves elsewhere, how else will you see new shoots and new beginnings?”.

I didn’t learn the lesson right away, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to accept something that didn’t sound very pleasant. It took me years to realize that though the seasons are cyclic, their effects on all things around us are cumulative. He died on a cold autumn day a few years after he told me this and strangely while trying to deal with his death, I found myself in front of the same tree again, perhaps trying to re-learn one of life’s hardest lessons.

And while this season still brings back memories and makes me introspect on the finality of it all, I have come to realize that what he really taught me on that day many years ago was not that winters are for saying good byes but that you cannot welcome spring in your life till you accept the realities about autumn.

Some Friday Night Magic...

2005-12-22T10:08:00.000+11:00

The cafe is full of Friday night personalities, you know the ones I am talking about, the ones with the shiny, glazed look, the ones with the best jumpers, newly polished shoes, coiffured or sleeky hair, immaculately done nails and sexy after-shaves, the ones with the works. Somewhere as the weekend progresses, the clothes and the heady perfumes start to lose their gleam and by Monday morning, everything presents itself in various shades of grey.

Modulated laughter hangs heavy in the air, romance lurks in the shadows cast by the candlelight and the ambience is charged with the sparks that come from the promise of new relationships and new beginnings.

They sit there in their own little world, smiling shyly and stealing coy glances at each other as the waitress hands them their menus...there is the whole "oh but what would you like to have?” concern, there is the gentle ribbing about the choices made and the palpable excitement of being together with a magical night just unfolding. He tells her about his day, she asks the right questions and adds her own bits, the awkward pauses are soon replaced by easy banter...they have so much to tell, so much to hear, she educates him about the menu, he drinks it all in and reaches across to hold her hand. He lifts a solitary rose out of the tube vase and hands it to her, she accepts it with a smile and laughs with her head thrown back over something he has just said. As she does this, the small pendant at the base of her neck glows seductively. He is trying and she is trying to make the magic last, to build a lasting relationship but mostly they are trying to share a nice part of themselves. The table is clutter free, except for her sequinned handbag.The waitress arrives with their food and the romance continues, this time over the food. It is all about them and the night really, with no one in between.

They don’t even notice the family on their far right which is as much a part of the surroundings really, except that they do this by standing out and not blending in. She is dressed in her work clothes and so is he; it is the kids that are dressed up in their Sunday best. There are no witty conversations or even consultations here about the menu, it takes them a couple of minutes to decide what they need...there is no lingering over the decisions but a mere enactment of a course chosen by both. There is talk, brief but friendly and warm. They seem to be sharing the evening without saying or hearing much. The baby throws his rattle down and the little girl asks for her stuffed bear. An assortment of stuffed animals and drawing books appear on the circular polished table. Sippy cups and bibs appear out of nowhere. There are no beaded handbags and pashminas on the chair rests here, just well used vinyl shoulder bags with cartoon characters on them, even the tube vases have been cleared to make way for dog eared books and crayons. They eat their dinner that way, there is much mirth and cheering when the baby gurgles over something and the little girl manages to read by herself from her book.

He gets up to pay the bill and for a brief moment in time, they observe one another, before the evening lures them away. They don’t know it but they are not all that different...on a basic level it is all about travelling together. For a split second the young parents see themselves as the romantic couple they once were and for a split moment, the young couple sees themselves a few years down the line, a bit jaded and worn around the corners perhaps but still in love - a different kind of love but love nonetheless.

Relationships grow and evolve and branch out and as they do so, they change your persona and expose your true self as you give in. For every relationship you are in, there is the baggage you accumulate and carry, whether you are aware of it or not, whether you acknowledge it or not. There is no such thing as travelling light, all you can do is hope the other person will accept your baggage and maybe even give you a hand; and even more importantly, it is what you take with you, not what you leave behind, that will ultimately decide where you go.

The Peach Tree

2005-12-21T16:22:00.000+11:00

What goes around comes around!

On a warm April day, I sit across a travel agent trying to convince him that I need to be on the next flight to Adelaide. We have had this argument several times, him telling me that I am too late, it is the holiday season and all flights are booked and me insisting that he could fit me in somewhere. How exactly I want him to do this I do not know but I sit there doggedly hoping to get a ticket. He glances at my passport and his eyes hover at the "Place of birth" field. His face softens a bit as he tells me he is from the same place himself.

"You still have family there?", he asks as skims through the other pages of my passport. "Not really", I mumble and by way of conversation add "My grandfather was the Principal of the Local boys' school". I have his attention now, he leans over and asks me almost urgently "What year? What was his name?". When I reply, his face changes. "You are his grand-daughter?", he asks me, his voice barely a whisper."Do you know he turned my life around, many years ago? He could have given up on me like everyone else did but he persisted. He believed in me when I had no belief in myself, he taught me some of life's most dignified lessons " His voice falters and I see reverence in his eyes. I have heard many such tales about my grandfather but I have always treated them as tales...tales and anecdotes in a time now forgotten. I hardly have any memories of my grandfather and his personality has been something I have created over the years from others' recollections and incidents. Today however as I see this middle aged man with moist eyes, I realize that some people and their deeds are for all times and that some people will be with you for no matter what, even if you never get to meet them.

Six years later on a typically cold Adelaide winter day, I stand in my garden at dusk. The air is redolent with the scent of gum trees and the grass blades crackle beneath my feet. I can hear the cicadas whirring and sound of a lone car on the nearby main road occasionally disrupting the placid stupor that seems to have settled all around me. I wander around the garden, ruminating, contemplating but mostly trying to blend in with the peaceful ambience.

There is always something to explore, there is always a feast for the senses, a brave rose bud battling winter's first frost, a sprig of jasmine in full blossom defying nature's time table, a sagacious bird building her nest in the gnarled branches of the lemon tree, a spider working on his gossamer web across the lattices and a defiant shower of lavender that stands up to the cold gale in resplendent colours. It is then that I notice the peach tree standing in the centre of my garden in its full glory. It has nearly no leaves to speak of, every branch is laden with fruit, glorious fruit with a vivid red-golden hue. Like drawn by an invisible force, I walk upto the tree and reach out to touch its bounty. I pluck a juicy red peach and bite into it...the tart sweetness seems to seep into me and seems to have a soothing effect in that already tranquil environment. There is something about the moment that seems to be full of deja vu...I have been through this before, this food for the soul exercise that I have just indulged in has crossed my paths earlier somewhere .

It is then that it strikes me, I have no idea who planted this garden and this peach tree. I never will know whose hands nurtured this piece of land and left me this legacy. Someone years ago planted a seed and moved on, someone sprinkled some goodness around many,many winters ago and today in the grand eternal scheme of things, I have been allowed to claim some of those gifts, some of that altruism as my own.

Goodness does not have a shelf life- this much I now know!

Tonight I can write

2005-12-21T15:57:00.000+11:00

There are things you owe yourself and there are things you owe others. I have no idea where this appreciation I have for Pablo Neruda's poems fits in. Appreciation is a weak word, make that respect or better still make that awe.Poetry has to touch me, touch me enough to make me smile, make me cry or perhaps touch me enough so that I lose all sense. Show me a verse that does any of the above and I can assure you those words will find a way into my memory, they will be etched forever as alive metaphors. Anything less, does not qualify.

So on a summer day about a decade ago or more, a tiny article in Deccan Herald caught my attention. It was a tribute to Pablo Neruda and his poetry and as I skimmed through the lines, a couple of verses blew me away. Years later, I have still have the now yellowed parchment,opened and re-opened, folded and refolded a hundred times since, waiting to be claimed or waiting to claim me. Over the years I have read and re-read them and the revelation that someone's love or someone's pain (and quite often they can be the same really) can be so gracefully and truthfully accepted still numbs me as it did ages ago.

Take this one of Neruda's poems for instance , the poem was called "Tonight I can write and these words

"Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her."...spring out at you.

All I know is that he was a Chilean poet, a lot of his work has been transalated into English and he has a permanent place in many dusty well thumbed anthologies and the hearts of hundreds of poetry lovers alike. What did he write about?He wrote about love, about longing, about the Spanish civil war and about his political and often fiery views.

But then this is not about the poet at all, for I believe that with every great poet, his words leave him far behind and take off on a journey of their own into the ideas and beliefs of their readers. Long after the poet has been forgotten, the words live as a burning memory to a wordsmith now discarded. The poet conjures an image, the image begins it own life and then gradually comes into its own when it begins to exist without the tag of the creator. I dont need to know his biography at all, his words have introduced me to him.

I will let his words do the talking. Some of his classics can be found here, more are found elsewhere on the net.
The Poems of Pablo Neruda

What about the verses you ask, the ones that have continued to haunt me for some time now? The poems was called "If you forget" and the lines were

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

Scarlett

When the red roses go out of season

2005-12-21T15:47:00.000+11:00

When the red roses go out of season...

The phone rings as I am about to leave for the day. My rather weary "Hello" is greeted with exuberance as a friend cheerily booms down into the phone. "Guess what", he gushes, "I met this guy yesterday who is a palm reader and he reckons love is on the cards for me, in other words I am about to meet my dream girl very,very soon". "That's wonderful", I murmur and hope he will leave it at that but he persists "What do you think?".

I hear his excited voice, the unbounding optimism that the love forecast seems to have generated in him and suddenly,I want to tell him very honestly what I think...

I want to tell him that love will walk its way into his life just like that, one fine day, hardly stopping to ask him if he is ready, that no palm reader and no astrological forecast will ever prepare him for the life changing emotions that will follow.

I hope he knows that he can’t choose whom he will fall in love with, all I hope is that he loves with all his heart and follows his heart without constantly second guessing himself. Love is as much about the little things as much as it is about the big decisions and this I want him to understand. Long after the Hallmark cards and red candy boxes have been exchanged and relegated to moth ball lined drawers, what will remain etched in memory forever is a look, a kind word, a pat on the back and a squeeze of the hand.

I want to tell him that rather than finding a person who says "I love you", I hope he finds a person who says "I'll always be there for you" because at the end of the day it is more about support than about declarations, it is more about having a familiar number to call and pour your heart out than about having to put your best voice on.It is more about caring for the other person than guarding your own vulnerabilities.

I hope he finds a love that does not fizzle out after the red roses have gone out of season, rather I hope he finds and gives the sort of love that packs an umbrella for a rainy day and waits at the window anxiously when the other person is running late.

Long after the love ballads and the duets have been sung and they have become silent melodies buried in the recesses of the mind forever, what will sustain him on a cold wintry day is someone with whom he can have a heart warming, honest talk. Sometimes you do not need to be poetic to do your soul searching. I hope he finds someone who can make him smile and someone with whom he can laugh himself silly, you can never go wrong if you can make each other smile.

I hope he realizes that acts and facades are hard to keep up and harder still to unmask, all he can do is hope that he will meet someone who will allow him to be himself and accept him for what he is and this will be much,much harder than he thinks possible. To find someone with whom you can discuss anything under the sun, is to find your piece of heaven and I wish he grows that lucky in love. I hope his love matures from counting the stars all night to staying up with the other person all night when sick and upset.

Lastly I wish I could tell him that luck and love do not always go together, that perhaps he will love with all his heart and it will never be reciprocated. Instead of being bitter and turning into a non believer, I wish I could tell him that it does not matter, he will still win in a game that declares no winners and makes everyone lose something in a way.

There is so much I could tell him but like with all miracles, I want him to experience this one in its entirety, I want him to walk this path and perhaps stumble a bit but move on nevertheless and learn and keep his heart opens as he travels.

"Are you there?" he asks me, suddenly realizing that I haven’t said anything for a long time. "I am very happy for you" I answer, and as he says goodbye, I softly respond "It will all work out in the end, it always does".

Scarlett.

No Good at Goodbyes

2005-12-21T15:45:00.000+11:00

Funny how you think, some things are never going to change and some people are never going to age. Funny how you think that in a changing world, the familiar faces from childhood will continue to be around long after you have left home. Funny how you see the fallacy of it all in retrospect.
The mail was short. It just said Gangabai had passed away,she wasnt in much pain and this had come as a kind of a shock to everyone around.

I stared blankly at my mother's email. She said she knew it was going to shock me but she said Gangabai would have wanted me to know. Do people really want other people to know...what about people who go through life guarding their lives behind a veil of stoicism, do they remain impartial in death too? But I digress, I grew up around Gangabai and when you grow up around someone,you dont think of secrets and facades...you just get used to them featuring in your life....like I got used to her featuring in my life.

She was there when I got home from school, a calm dignified presence in the background dusting the cupboards or helping my mum clean the kitchen. She was there when I arrived after doing well in an exam, after having a tiff with a best friend, after arriving caked in dust after a sports day, after tearfully banging through the front door when life and a teacher had been unfair to me.

She stayed long enough to see that I made up with the same "best" friend after every major fight, that I listened to my Dad's snippets of wisdom on life not always being fair and through many more exams, some of which I made the grade and some others which taught me lessons not previously learnt. She stuck around till grazed knees and pink hair clips gave way to MnBs and my first ever lipstick. She waved me off to my first "Rose Day" at college and she waited with Mum in the front garden till I got back 6 hours later, flushed,blushing a tad disappointed too.

She saw the transition from "I want Mummy" to "Can you puhleeeze leave me alone for the next 10 minutes" and later back to "I miss you when I am away Mum". She watched from the shadows as my crushes (the normal and the obnoxious) called up and were sometimes given the cold shoulder by my Mum and Dad. Whenever I erupted into "You didnt have to embarass me", she would smile and say "Somethings and some kinds of wisdom never change down the ages you know" as she exchanged looks of solidarity with my Mum and Dad.

She cried when the day finally came for me to pack my bags and move to Bangalore. I cried too but through my impatient tears I was finally waiting for my first ever job and my first ever pay and I consoled myself that I had to leave home anyways and wouldnt she be around when I came back! Indeed she was, she would listen when I told her about my workplace, my new friends, my snooty boss, the wonder of living in a crowded metro. She would sometimes silently wipe a tear with her frayed pallu and say "Its lonely around here though, the phone doesnt ring, there are no friends of yours parked here and I miss not having all your things lying around"...and I would suddenly realize that homes change when someone leaves them...irrevocably and for ever.

When in a few years I made the big move overseas, she cried all over again,this time I cried too for I knew how hard it was,hadnt I learnt that in the past 2 years. "Will you come with Mum and Dad to see me off?" I asked her. "No child", she replied, "I will wish you well though, I am no good at goodbyes".

As the bus wound it way out of my hometown and I turned around to have a last look at the crowded,zigzagged streets and familiar shops and alleys, I saw her...she was standing away from the crowd that had come to see me off, but she had come and her gentle face was lined with worry and behind the brown glasses, I could see glistening tears.
I met her over the years, this time we had tales of my new country, of the things I had learnt, the things I missed and the things I would forver love no matter where I went or what I did. We would sit on the terrace near the old mango tree, both of us cutting a quaint picture and we would talk and she would tell me how much my parents missed me even though they never said it in their emails for fear of upsetting me. "Dont worry about us though", she would say briskly, "we have all the family here and except for missing you, we dont have anything to worry about".

I saw her for the last time in March, I was to leave the next day and she didnt want to say goodbye as usual. I kept it light, I will see you next year I said...she smiled, "Indeed you will, look after yourself, we will all wait for next year". Then she was gone, the gate creaked and then fell silent and the golden afternoon wore on. That was then...the mail made it seem like it was yesterday. You dont think of the possibility that a goodbye can be your final one...arent goodbyes supposed to be interludes till we meet again.

She was right, she was no good at goodbyes...but hey she didnt know that I am no good at them either, or perhaps she did. She was right about one thing though...it is not only homes, lives change too when someones leaves... irrevocably and forever.
RIP.

Scarlett

The Gift

2005-12-21T15:38:00.000+11:00

The Gift
He comes in as I am about to settle down to write a support email. In his usual fashion, he hasn’t knocked on the door or asked me if this is a good time to talk, instead as I stare at him with a look of mild irritation, he pulls up a chair and sits down next to me.

He is humming to himself as he does this and he keeps up the beat by tapping his foot and drumming his fingers on my desk. We sit like that for a few minutes, eventually the humming stops and he notices me staring at him. I force a smile and wait for him to say something, hoping that whatever he wants to say will be quick. I expect another lengthy explanation or excuse about some work that I have assigned to him. We have been through this many times now and I am well aware that my voice has a rather sharp edge to it when I mention deadlines.

Today however, his mood changes when he stops the humming. His face takes on a different, almost mellow expression as he asks me if he could take a further week off after Christmas. I sigh and almost start to explain why this isn’t feasible when something about the moment stops me. I can’t place my finger on it but there seems to be some subtle poignancy about the moment and the situation that makes me want to let him talk.

I wait for him to say something more by way of explanation and when none is forthcoming, I ask him if everything is alright. For a long while he says nothing and simply stares at his shoes and then suddenly all the facades of nonchalance and the "couldn’t care less" attitudes that his tattooed forearms and pierced eyebrows seem to scream out, fade away. His face softens and I suddenly find myself looking into a pair of troubled eyes.

"Its me grandmum", he says in a muffled voice. "She is real bad, got Alzheimer’s and stuff and now they say they have detected cancer too", he swallows a lump,” She won’t last long at this rate". He inhales rapidly and keeps staring at his shoes.” She doesn’t recognize me over the phone now", he adds, "And I thought I would kind of spend a week with her you know, it is not like she has lost all her marbles, some days she recognizes me fine and then it is like the old times ".

"You can take the week off", I find myself saying as he looks up at me, "I hope she recognizes you and I hope the two of you have a lovely time together, it will be alright". My voice trails off because there is nothing more left for me to say and nothing more left for him to hear because we both know the reality and we both want to leave the definite unsaid.

With shyness that beguiles his usual exuberance, he shyly shows me a hand bound book, his collection of poems that he has written for his grandma. Each page has painstakingly done illustrations and little notes to her of days well spent and memories well cherished. "It is nothing fancy, just my Christmas gift to her", he says and then adds almost as an afterthought, "She might not be around the next year you know".

"She will love this", I say struggling to keep my voice level. I tell him something I learnt years ago, that the best gift you can give is one wherein you give a part of yourself.

Reassured,he smiles and gets up to go. When he reaches the door, he awkwardly turns and whispers thanks and tells me that he will finish all his work before he leaves. As the door softly closes behind him and I hear the familiar humming again, I almost want to call him back in and thank him. He doesn’t know it but he has just taught me my most important lesson, the wisdom that you don’t give any less just because you know the end is around the corner.

Scarlett