Saturday, March 10, 2012
Krishna
Saw this guy in galleria yesterday. We exchanged a brief glance as I entered Galleria from the back gate.Not sure he was an Indian. Or may be he was. Actually I am sure he wasn't. For he sat there, in the galleria dome, dressed in a casual brown T shirt and bermudas, his flip flops kept in from of him and a paper plate kept to his side in which he may have had bhel. He sat there with his legs crossed and played the flute, a long flute. I am trying very desperately to recollect the music that he played. I know that it was intense and soulful , one that makes you want to stop all that you’re doing and sit them listening to it but just cant recollect it. I went past him, very intrigued and curious, wanting to ask him why he was playing the flute and why there?! As the world went about shopping, he sat there playing the flute. A strange calm on his face. I so wanted to go back and ask him why he was doing that. Why the flute? Why there? Why so peaceful. If only I had..
The third decade
16 July 546PM
30s set in..
I look at the 4 strands of grey often in the mirror.. a sense of achievement as if I had a hand in painting them that way..
And boast too to colleagues around that I have more than one now..
30 is sinking in now.. all the years before this have become surreal now..
Like they never happened.. or happened at the back of the mind somewhere..
‘ This probably will be the most important decade of your life’ someone said..
It will be..
It has to be…
Not that I am missing having left the train.. not that twenties could have counted more than they did.. or may be they could have.. but I don't give a damn..
But the next decade will be a wee bit too late.. know that in my gut..
Ive stopped looking at the boys now..
Doesn't give too much thrill now.. major sign I wd think to have moved to the more important stuff in life..
If it’s here and now.. what do I ought to do..what greatness will be greatness enough..?
Do I look at making good of my talent.. I have it.. but is it good enough..?
Or should I chug along as I am.. for aint I doing well?
Or would greatness be a much wiser me ..a more aware me.. at peace with myself.. with who I am..
This time rouses as much curiosity as it scares..
But I better know where it’s going…so if even it means I am doing nothing..
30s set in..
I look at the 4 strands of grey often in the mirror.. a sense of achievement as if I had a hand in painting them that way..
And boast too to colleagues around that I have more than one now..
30 is sinking in now.. all the years before this have become surreal now..
Like they never happened.. or happened at the back of the mind somewhere..
‘ This probably will be the most important decade of your life’ someone said..
It will be..
It has to be…
Not that I am missing having left the train.. not that twenties could have counted more than they did.. or may be they could have.. but I don't give a damn..
But the next decade will be a wee bit too late.. know that in my gut..
Ive stopped looking at the boys now..
Doesn't give too much thrill now.. major sign I wd think to have moved to the more important stuff in life..
If it’s here and now.. what do I ought to do..what greatness will be greatness enough..?
Do I look at making good of my talent.. I have it.. but is it good enough..?
Or should I chug along as I am.. for aint I doing well?
Or would greatness be a much wiser me ..a more aware me.. at peace with myself.. with who I am..
This time rouses as much curiosity as it scares..
But I better know where it’s going…so if even it means I am doing nothing..
Subin’s ancestral house in Mallapuram
8 Feb, at the threshold of the house, sometime in the early hours of morning
As I write this, sitting on the steps at the threshold of Subin's ancestral house in Mallapuram, life has already come alive here. Tempos, rickshaws, trucks and mopeds screeching across every couple of seconds on the bypass road just in front of our house. I am told, this road did not exist when Subin and his cousins were children and came to Mallapuram on all their summer holidays, invariably.I am on my last day of my visit here, probably even the last hour as we will now quickly pull out our ceremonial outfits, bathe and leave this place in a cab.I'd heard way too many anecdotes from this place from Subin. He loves to reminisce about the past and had taken me through many a story of how he and his cousins would pluck mangoes from the trees and eat them ripe and fresh and how this place had trees till as far as you could see - bananas, pineapples, berries ( eatable and sweet , that I dont know names of), and tamarind and jack fruit and crotons and bougenvillas and the list continues. As I write, I can imagine Vallechan in his eighties, walking around the mangroves talking to the plants , touching their leaves as he walks.Ammama briefly stood looking out of the window yesterday. From her failing memory , plucking scenes of from many many years ago. A regret on her brows on what remains of what had been.The red flooring, now chipping in many places- the wooden roof , solid and yet frayed at places reeks of memories from years gone by. Just too many things here keep taking me to the past and dont allow me to live in today - The huge trees that have now dried up, the small rooms with that lovely musty smell of a life that was locked up in its rooms for years tilll we opened it. The kitchen with the chulha where we stoked fire just to take pictures of a practice we wanted to capture knowing well we will never cook rice that way.As I sit here writing, calm and at ease with myself -i feel the desperation to capture every bit of this past .. this desperation to not let it drift further than what it already has.
As I write this, sitting on the steps at the threshold of Subin's ancestral house in Mallapuram, life has already come alive here. Tempos, rickshaws, trucks and mopeds screeching across every couple of seconds on the bypass road just in front of our house. I am told, this road did not exist when Subin and his cousins were children and came to Mallapuram on all their summer holidays, invariably.I am on my last day of my visit here, probably even the last hour as we will now quickly pull out our ceremonial outfits, bathe and leave this place in a cab.I'd heard way too many anecdotes from this place from Subin. He loves to reminisce about the past and had taken me through many a story of how he and his cousins would pluck mangoes from the trees and eat them ripe and fresh and how this place had trees till as far as you could see - bananas, pineapples, berries ( eatable and sweet , that I dont know names of), and tamarind and jack fruit and crotons and bougenvillas and the list continues. As I write, I can imagine Vallechan in his eighties, walking around the mangroves talking to the plants , touching their leaves as he walks.Ammama briefly stood looking out of the window yesterday. From her failing memory , plucking scenes of from many many years ago. A regret on her brows on what remains of what had been.The red flooring, now chipping in many places- the wooden roof , solid and yet frayed at places reeks of memories from years gone by. Just too many things here keep taking me to the past and dont allow me to live in today - The huge trees that have now dried up, the small rooms with that lovely musty smell of a life that was locked up in its rooms for years tilll we opened it. The kitchen with the chulha where we stoked fire just to take pictures of a practice we wanted to capture knowing well we will never cook rice that way.As I sit here writing, calm and at ease with myself -i feel the desperation to capture every bit of this past .. this desperation to not let it drift further than what it already has.
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