Reminiscing a Rainy Day

The earth smiles as she experiences as gradual thaw. Spring is inching closer and a shy dreamer pokes her head out of the chaos of life to try and make sense of it. The open air bites at the wheels that smoothly travel on the tar, and the dreamer takes notice. Pale yellow of early blossoms, stretches of emerald, the slick black of tar, and the comely whiteness of the skies above….color is returning to the world in all vivacity. The legs push harder on the favorite machine as she continues to travel, absorbed in the awakening enigma around her.

It takes little time to get used to the faint sunlight of the early March days and the very fickle winds. But things were different in autumn before the winter had set in. Autumn’s magic had a different flavor to it. The unusual trick of the stubborn autumnal October days had been an extraordinarily inconsistency in the weather. October had pretended lovely summer with splashes of unexpected rains in between. And as I passed the same tarred parking lots that were once slippery after rainy days, I remembered a very photographic journey from 4 months ago....

It is an autumnal day that has come with the rains. I open my eyes to see the raindrops collecting on the panes, knocking invitingly. I rejoice, evasively slipping out with camera in hand. The rains persist pleasantly, and the damp earth is thriving to the rare autumnal rains—a celebration of epic proportions. A key was unlocked, and a door yanked open. A bike is pulled out enthusiastically and then the world was pulsing to my rapid rhythm. I peddle relentlessly, a lone cyclist in the deserted gloom of the wide outdoors. A panoramic view of the hills add to the experience. The same roads. The same bike. The same person. And a different world.

If there was one thing I;ll never grow tired of, it is biking in the rains. Although it is an activity I thoroughly enjoy and savor, it is like that rare treat one has to anticipate. Firstly, it doesn’t rain every day. Secondly, it is very hard to evade my very guarding parents. I have never fallen sick because of biking in the rains before, not that I am very scared of the possibility of falling ill. It is the moment that matters and to see one slip away being locked up warmly at home is absolute anguish. But today is a lucky day indeed. The knowledge smiles on my lips as I peddle away.

The maples shiver helplessly, succumbing to the mighty force of the steady rains. They litter the street side, the beautiful tawny standing out against the black of the tar. The bike skids to a halt and I crouch next to them, the rain dripping off my very long hair. Believe me, those of you who haven’t seen the beauty in the webbed vein of a maple have missed out on much. I pick a soggy one up. It clings limply to my palm. The rain is like dew, collecting in very different ways on each maple. The fearless camera finds its food. It has become a moment which has stayed picture perfect.

Further along the road, I find something curious. A rose petal is quivering tenderly as the rains splatter mercilessly. It looks like the brutal winds haven’t managed to kill the little petal yet. She is the coy pink of an early bloom, stolen by the winds and tossed unfeelingly to the ground. It is a pity she has to find an end this way. I watch her suffering, feeling delicate myself. I’m forced to leave her there, tremulous and weak under the rains. Abandoned, she cries alone under the weeping skies. I have no choice but to walk away.

The bike is wet, the hair is damp and tangled. The far side of the fence is dancing to the rain, and the heart is enthralled. The ear is enjoying a melody and the mind is awake. Wide-eyed, I gaze at the bleak horizons and the planes which are hardly visible. It feels like nature’s little secrets lie just beyond, and that I’m unable to grasp it.

As time crawls steady, the rains subside and comforting, sleepy lull descends. The thirsty ground has been fed, and is yawning loud. The dreamer in me also retires and creativity is slowing. Understanding that the euphoria is evanescing with the rains, I turn back. I return home shabby as an old dog to receive an earful for my mischief.
But the mind is elsewhere, wandering in and out of the autumnal rains, reliving.

When it snowed in Mid-Summer

A reluctant school-goer has returned home. The shoes are shoved away and the maroon socks have been irresponsibly thrown to the winds. There is little to create ruckus about, so I am yet to think of something. The friends are away, locked up in their own personal havens and I’m still desperately searching for mine within my tiny head. Having found no such paradise to satisfy my imagination, I decide that it will have to be the outdoors and optimistically reach for the latch. The door opens into the disappointingly familiar street-side. They offer scarce fodder for the imaginative brain, and it is difficult for the dreamer to construct anything fabulous out of it. So, I accept the cruel dismissal and settle down on the porch, falling into the reclusive, purposeless comfort of the genuine idler. The irresponsible lounger has just sat down to think, and everything shall remain undisturbed for a while now.

The heat waves shiver off the tar and travel. The afternoon is still, and the sun is most impolite today. I feel his wrath on my prickly skin. The afternoon is scorching and I squint. I am most unresponsive otherwise, and quietly disregard. Although the coolness of red-oxide would feel much better on my bare feet, I choose not to move. The world inside is dark and shadowy, and has fussing adults walking around. Right here, in the wide open—absorbed in my own sleepy reverie, all is quiet, if not exciting. As the heat tickles my bare feet, and my skin starts to boil, the irritation grows. Inside my head, something else is growing. A gorgeously fantasized winter wonderland. How would it be if a beautiful, snow-covered meadow would replace this dusty street side? Within the blink of an eye, my imagination melds with reality and I perceive the street side covered to an inch thick with fresh snow. Within the next blink, the vision has evaporated, and the irritation has grown even more acute. A south Indian late summer is never the best time to start thinking about snow, but I’m too young to know that. How I wish it would have snowed right here…..

“Snow is nothing but small fluffy pieces of clouds, which are torn apart sprinkled around by playful angels,” had been the most scientific guess of a friend in response to my question of why it snowed up north at all, and it had soon become everybody else’s scientific guess when I was seven. The belief stuck, and soon, I had claimed the hypothesis as my own, confident of proving it right someday. The primary subject for the deep thinker had been things like these—and they provoked further discussions with our group of intellectual young scientists. Well, leaving that apart, the day had proven to be most unfruitful. I had wished for snow, and it hadn’t appeared, and it turned out to be another day systematically wasted in fruitless dreams.

The weekday moved on, and the ritual too, continued, as more and more of my friends shied away from the hot summers, into the curtained comfort of the sweet indoors. To lure them out into the streets became more and more of a difficult task to achieve as the days progressed, and more of the world wilted away into the dust. The frustration grew stronger, and I started wishing that the angels up in the skies would look this way too. There seemed to be a justice to my claim. Why did they always have to exist in the north? Didn’t we deserve some wonderful snow right here too? Maybe if they could tear apart some more clouds and sprinkle it down on Bangalore, I could take a day off and frolic in the fresh snow.

Or maybe if the angels granted me the power, I could be the one tearing up the clouds, or waving the magic wand. The shared yearning for something so improbable became the most central of all my desires, until I learnt to conjure snow out of useless things. I finally got to wave my magic wand. I discovered the secret formula for making it snow, even in mid-summer. And the idea soon became the biggest hit among all my friends, suddenly sky-rocketing me into instant popularity.

No snow? No problem! We could conjure them from thermo coal. Rub the thermo-coal on rough surfaces, and they would fragment so quickly into tiny pieces that floated about. When it was windy out, it would prove most effective to walk down the streets with your thermo-coal and rub it vigorously on all possible rough surfaces. Those were the best days—the days when we had plenty of discarded thermo coal in hand, and endless possibilities in the air. The noisy brood would walk about the streets bare-foot, letting the fake snow invade every nook and corner. And as the scorching summer had turned into gusty august and September days, the habit had persisted in all gusto. The small band of faithful followers would come behind me and the inventor of the fake snow would walk about the roads, announcing my triumphant victory by quick demonstrations if anyone asked.

“Rub, rub, rub,” they would scream encouraging, as the quick hands moved and they would thrill, laugh or allow the fake snow to cover their lashes. And I would grin, and laugh the afternoons off, feeling like I had accomplished something. It had been considered particularly ingenious at that point of time, and I had gleefully enjoyed all the stardom that had accompanied my accidental discovery. Together, we had made it snow like never before in Bangalore. Even though it could never mach up to the standards of experiencing snow for real, this fake snow was enough to satisfy us. If I had continued, they would have probably nicknamed me the “thermo-coal” girl, or something equally loony. Aha, if only life had such wonderful fairytale endings.

Then, the complaints had come, and they had been quite severe. The aunties with the broomsticks were annoyed. The children had created so much of debris that it was impossible to clear it all in a week, if not in a day. If you’ve ever tried to sweep at thermo-coal pieces, you will get at what I mean. The poor souls had slogged to remove all the thermo-coal off their front yards, and just when they had thought that they were done, the wind would blow all the particulate matter back to them. Every morning, they woke up to remove more and more and much more would dirty their yards every single day. It had thoroughly infuriated them, and they had caught us at the act next time, and reprimanded.

And that day, the little band had dispersed quickly and fallen apart, and the ingenious inventor had been seen as a cause of a mess so big. The aunties had suddenly changed my fate---I had gone from being the angel with her magic wand to the annoying brat. The carefully built up stardom had fragmented as fast as the frayed thermo-coal, and much had disappeared down the bend.
Although I later found other means to win back my band of friends and even coffee bites from the very same punishing aunties (courtesy of chubby cheeks), I had been disallowed from conjuring fake snow again. And although I had learnt to adapt to the scorching summers, somewhere in the back of the heart, I had felt a nagging resentment. I would never get to experience snow for real. And I was doomed to face my summers over and over again without any such grand respites. Would there ever come a day when I could walk in my winter wonderland which was very much real and not made up?

All this came back to me as I watched it snow for real this December, through my car window. I saw some very admirable things, and frolicked in the freshly gathered December snow, very much for real. I fulfilled my childhood ambition but it felt like nothing too great. And as I stared at the snow fall—cold, wet and beautiful, I thought back to my fake snow that I had conjured up just to satisfy my yearning, many summers back.

“Rub, rub, rub…..” a faint voice echoed so distantly within the dreamer’s head as I watched it snow.

This snow was beautiful, just like I had always thought it would be. But somewhere, for some inexplicable reason, it had been the Thermo-coal snow that had always been much better.

Wintry Delights

Seasons change. You grow. Learn. Laugh. Play. Work.

Change is a part of everybody’s life. As I have mentioned in my previous post, some things in my life have seen a slight change, without any specific reason..... but even though my priorities have seen a shift as I grow, I’m glad that a few traits have remained safe with me, as individually pleasing as they have always been. The thirst to explore, enjoy, rejuvenate, and draw endless inspiration from the great outdoors is here to stay, and I harass my capacities to the maximum, just to thrill myself occasionally with my outdoors explorations. I find endless delight in the most inexplicable things, and often, they are so simple that it becomes quite impossible to believe that anything like some good misty rain or a distant sea gull’s call is all it takes to make my day. Turning a silent observer who does nothing more than watch nature play has become an addictive habit to the illogical dreamer in me.

Every journey is an exploration. The uncertainty factor that accompanies each journey is just as much as thrilling as the very experience itself. Every journey might be rigorously planned. But what you encounter along the way, you cannot ascertain with absolute accuracy, and as it turns truly unpredictable, the thirst to discover increases tenfold. I knew I was going to Lake Tahoe. There would be Snow. We would stay by Reno, in a hotel. It would possibly continue snowing. We would go snowmobiling. I would get to watch the lake….although I knew that these were to be expected, I knew that it would include more than just that. The weather foreshadowed something enchanting, and the winds held the same promise. So as we moved on, and it began snowing, I let my experience throw its surprises for me. To go engulf yourself in an experience without a fair idea of what it’s going to be has been one of my persisting habits, one which I’m planning never to get rid of....it allows me to accept and enjoy experiences as they come.

Snow was always an integral part of my most vibrant of fantasies. As a kid, I conjured up snow from thermo coal, when the summers turned a little too unbearable…and that’s another story which is reserved for another leisurely recital. Snow enchanted because it was never within my reach and I grew up walking in winter wonderlands in my countless dreams….and my love for the colder, cooler and wetter clime has never diminished.

"On wintry day, as I drove,
on mountainous terrain, on deserted road,
from the clouds, the moon emerged,
and my paradise was rediscovered. "

The words spinned in my head and grew more defined as I whizzed away towards another impending holiday experience. I lulled myself into a reverie, my thoughts moving without a tail, but my eyes constantly registering. As we moved, I gazed at horizons, rolling pastures, and other cars on the freeway full of cheerful holiday goers. Life felt beautiful. A nice long 6 hour drive gives you just the sort of time to reflect, relish, enjoy and just be yourself.

The skies were a rich purple as evening neared. And my world changed. Snowflakes gently descended, breathtakingly beautiful and soft. It was the sort of nameless, silent invitation into all that was going to occupy my next three days. I squeaked and clung to my frosty window now gathering the flakes. I traced my little masterpiece on the window, in childish delight. The exact happiness that accompanied that moment of simple joy cannot be explained. It was nearing night and the city lights glimmered in the far distance, a connected network of neon blues and fiery reds sitting snug amongst all the snow. I reflected endlessly on how civilizations and nature can live in this harmonious co-existence. In the darkness, the fresh white of snow was piercing my eyes. Yes, I was about to walk in my winter wonderland….there was something about the way that snow was quietly gathering that made me clear the moisture on my frosty window again and again for better views…..and Taylor Swift screamed my classic country favorites from my i-pod:
“A don’t think that the passenger seat has ever looked this good to me….”
I agreed with her, in between flickering lights and racing shadows, whirling colours, and late night snow.

And adventure, was in store. When we finally parked, I rushed out into the inviting wide open, throwing my arms wide open, embracing the winds and taking a fresh lung full. The refreshing winds invaded my soul, lifting, liberating, unleashing. And slowly, I turned around in the dead of the night, twirling to a remembered melody, when no one was looking, in the middle of the parking lot…..the magic, would unfold.

Time to Dust the Cobwebs!

The New Year has come and gone, and there is still so much more to expect. For me, New Year is a convenient excuse to clean all the clutter in my head and dust a few cobwebs. Come New Year, I end up blaming the previous year for everything that possibly went wrong. With the past bearing the wrath of my unjust insults, I leave it behind, to step into a new tomorrow with thousands of resolutions and many more wishful dreams. I cannot prevent this burst of optimism, and it’s been something I have always enjoyed and celebrated. But I also continually reflect, as is my irritable nature, I try to find reasons for everything.

In the incredible flurry of activity in the past year, I have felt my obsession for personal growth fade, along with many other hobbies. Things that interested hold my attention no longer, and things that I considered boring have come to occupy an important position in my life. Lost hobbies, and old habits, new addictions and better obsessions. Sometimes, I wonder how things can change so quickly as time progresses. But I also understand that some habits need to be seeded, and others, weeded. And the New Year is a perfect excuse, to leave certain things behind, and accept some others.

My concentration has been a naughty monkey this year, jumping from branch to branch. Whatever that caught my fancy became an avid hobby, and I pursued with great enthusiasm, even if I knew nothing about it. From bird watching to art to photography to poetry to calligraphy to a mild interest in photoshopping pictures. Concentration wasn’t channelized, but I broadened my horizons. Yes, it has been enjoyable, this experimenting, but not satisfactory. If you keep jumping from one hobby to another, gathering so much pace and leaving your favorites behind, you tend to reach a certain stage of saturation where you grow confused and start to question yourself. And as confused as I have remained all year, there have been repeating questions which have remained unanswered.

Who am I to blame, for my loss of interests? Why don’t I miss my friends as much as I once used to? Why do I forget so much, and remember irrelevant things in great detail? Some habits have stayed strong, and others have melted away. And some hobbies have found gradual decay as have some other things seen rapid progression. Fewer filled pages in my journal, and lots of unfinished stories, more pictures in my album, and an expanded knowledge of films, movies and music. No recent best sellers on my bookshelf, but a worn bicycle. Less thought, more action. Less of intelligent talk, and more of gossiping. The thirst to explore and uncover has grown, but I guess I have unknowingly sacrificed so many things in the process. Stories, poems, and sonnets don’t find an end, and stay cluttered, begging for a conclusion. But I chose to orphan them, to pursue things that hold greater interest, the big outdoors. I breathe in the fresh air, and tap my feet to the exhilarating rhythm of life. And while doing that, have I forgotten to be the vigilant diarist, who also captures every experience, treasuring it in her words? The writer in me hasn’t vanished, and my creative instincts haven’t’ disappeared like vapor. But I realize I have cruelly suppressed them, prioritizing differently.

Words have been my best friends, ever since I can remember. They have listened voicelessly and comforted. They have captured experiences, and have earned my respect. When using the computer meant facebooking for twelve hours in the holidays, gloating about chatting with five friends at the same time and following every single thread of conversation, when full-fledged discussions with parents decayed down to hanging phrases, I knew that I had left something behind. I had left me behind. The real me, the one who hears the meaning within the word, whose writing is sporadic and not forced. The one, who tries to stay polite and not intrude the one who answered in complete sentences instead of “omg, k, ttyl.” Yes, I have left much behind, and I think it’s time to reclaim myself and return to hobbies that interested, and fall into my realm of comfort.

Striking that balance is a hard thing, and self-restrain is also difficult to achieve. My unhealthy obsession with networking has eaten away so much of my time and space. The delusion has engulfed me this past one year, but I’m convinced that the virtual is never as genuine as that one handwritten letter that comes to you with love.

So, I’m changing things this New Year. I’m steering clear, and removing the weeds. There is so much to reclaim. A pen pal has been forgotten, among all the million e-mails. A blog has grown dormant, among all the fanatic networking and efforts to reconnect. A mind has grown bored, listening to the same old songs. Books have remained unread, while trying to some sensational bit of news about somebody else’s life. A blog still hasn’t reached its 100th post. I may have gone from being somebody stubborn to being somebody impulsive.

But better things have happened too. I have discovered that photography can be interesting. I have found new friends. I have learnt to be grateful for the littlest things that life has to offer. I have not ceased to find wonders and small miracles in every day experiences. I still find beauty, in every experience, and I still believe in myself. I guess hope, is one habit that has stayed strong. I’m grateful for that too.

This New Year’s resolution has been constructed. I choose to step forward, and also go behind. Reclaim, and not forget. Laugh better and live healthier. Learn more, and never ignore. Work for a cause and find satisfaction. But more importantly, live life like there is no tomorrow, and rediscover. Because it’s never too late for anything. I promise this blog shall see it’s 100th post this year….and there is still so much more to expect!

Yes, it’s time to dust the cobwebs. And I have my duster ready. And also my vigilant pen. Because my poems need an end, as I need a new beginning. It’s time to dust my cobwebs!!!

Happy new year to you all! Hope you keep your resolutions! :)

Once Upon An Indian Monsoon--Part 2

The day is just an infant, now growing. As we continue on our journey, the all too familiar Giant Nandi looms into view, tall, black and magnificent. A few devoted worshipers gather before him, folding their hands in ardent prayer. The purohit doesn’t look their way; he is busy washing the giant monolith, sanctifying it. We silently stare, as the dazzling spray of water hits the Nandi, splashing off his black back in little droplets that sparkle like tiny golden orbs as they catch the sun. Wet and slowly drying, the Nandi looks beautiful. The Nandi is now decorated with thick garlands. It’s now time to chant, and the purohit immediately starts off with the rapid Sanskrit.

We gaze at the Nandi in awe. He adds something to the experience, and we are caught in the moment. Sweaty-faced exercisers parade past us, throwing us irritable glances as we ignorantly stand in their way, our admiring eyes on the Nandi. We finally understand what the “tut-tut”s mean, and shuffle past quickly.

A beggar sits cross legged on the stone floor, his wrinkles disappearing into his thin shawl. In a dirty old cap to protect himself from the cold, he truly looks fragile. He is loud with his begging, voice distinctly hoarse and throaty. I’m sure that he makes quite a fortune every day, what with the haggard face and pleading, frail arms. He has a talent of melting many a stubborn heart with his repeated croaks, and predictably, his dented steel mug is quick to fill up. Next to him, a more dim-witted being is selling souvenirs at outrageous prices. His customers could only be the foreigners or those weird outlandish visitors who consider 100 bucks to be a cheap deal. We, on the other hand, understand the intricacies of local bargaining. And we are as smart as we are stingy. Drawing inspiration from how our mothers, aunts and countless others have haggled before, we try to play our favorite game again.

I approach him, mimicking the superior stance and arrogant pride of an art connoisseur of much experience. His eyes flicker up to meet mine, suspicious and unfriendly. “Excuse me, how much?” I question innocently enough. His answer is sharp, which only means that he sees through my little act. The cousin, of course, is the expert with the haggling. Everybody is aware that we aren’t going to buy, but it’s always fun to play the customer. The seller is naturally irritated. We harass him a little longer, and the beggar stops his croak for a little while to entertain himself. After we get tired, we walk away with an “hmpf, too costly,” towards more interesting things, as the dim-witted being mumbles complaints incoherently....

Fresh cucumber slices are arranged on a cart. Neat and symmetrical, like a work of art, with a tempting pineapple crowning the masterpiece--the cucumbers catch our attention. Soon, we are biting into the cool freshness hungrily. Cheeky cousin chooses this particular instant of time to remind us of the fat worm that we forsake some time ago. We swallow with effort, imploring him to stop. Of course, he continues with a fully detailed description of the kind which would put any entomologist to shame. We become even more greedy with a cucumber, and a little more deaf to his solo speech.

A lonely bird screeches, penetrating the morning air with her call. We watch her flit between leaves. She pecks at the bamboo patiently. She is an interesting specimen, and my bird-watching skills are alert once more. Soon, there’s a leaf dangling off her little beak. Oh, she must be building a nest! The morning is animated with her movements; she is an absolute delight to watch. I follow her with cheetah-stealth, concealed in the bushes. I watch her carefully, without straying away from my dear ones. There is something sad and determined about the bird. She seems forlorn. Within a bat of an eye-lid, she is from the rock to her preferred bamboo again. I watch this songbird work. She is filled with a sort of fevered energy, and it amuses me, how something that could fit into the palm of my hand can hold this much life. The bird is an extremely diligent worker, and it looks like she’s building her nest alone. In her own plane, above the ground, she stitches a different world. A world for herself, a home, a place to nurture….she constructs and designs, on plain intuition. Who taught her the craft? Who taught her how to design? The dim-witted seller of souvenirs we had just met demanded a return for his talent. And here she is, a truly gifted song-bird, delighting me with her craftwork, not asking for anything in return, not even taking notice. As the sun moves between the clouds once more, he pushes the deserving songbird into the lime-light. In that perfect moment, she perches, confident and unabashed on the bamboo, her leaf still in beak. She stays still, as the fiery sun illuminates. My camera captures the enigma. She hears the click. In a flash, she is gone, escaping the lime-light. But the ghost of the bird is caught in entirety. I whoot. The cousin immediately joins the war dance, without demanding reasons.

“You know,” says cousin, “It’s the little things that are cuter,” I’m surprised to see him talking this vaguely, but the small berry he’s holding in his cupped hands explains for him.
“Aha,” I agree.
“I found it on the ground,” he says, “I think it’s cute.”
I pinch his cheeks and tell him that he’s cuter. He blushes, and I tell him to take care of the berry. He assures me that he will, and pockets it.




The morning is trying to melt into afternoon, and we can’t believe that its’ that late already. The sky is still changing colors, telling us that afternoon is closer than we had thought. The mist is completely gone, and the murky skies we had previously witnessed are now something else. We wouldn’t mind continuing forever, if not for the feeble protests of the older feet. We are obedient, after all, and it’s the elders who bought us here. So, we turn back, light-heartedly, planning for a movie later in the day. But the journey homewards has turned a little different.



This journey has been one of rediscovery, of understanding that it is the small things that hold true wonder….things as small as red ants in the undergrowth, honey-bees on morning glories, and songbirds, building nests. And in the intricate puzzle that is life, simplicity is not so difficult to achieve. It is through such trivial things like an unplanned visit to the hills, that we start to fall in love with life….the late monsoon morning swallows us, as we speed away from the hills, our hearts thrilling to a very different tune. Today, we’ve lived life, like it’s worth it. Today, we have also fallen in love with it. And so, the journey ends, and also begins......

Once Upon an Indian Monsoon

A late monsoon’s early morning and this part of the world is hazy, unclear and young. Everything is pastel grey and awakening. Bright and glorious, the sun emerges to dissolve the haze. It burns liquid gold for one flickering minute, touching everything with its brilliance. Then, the clouds snugly kidnap it, and the world is darker once more. Still, the sun struggles to peek through the monsoon clouds to chase yesterday’s shadows away…

We witness the silent play of light and shadow on the city from the Chamundi hills. Our legs, just as eager and young as the morning, beg to reach a higher altitude. With the burst of natural excitement, we break into a sprint, Cousin and I. In the disappearing gloom, we race towards the morning---expectant, hungry, delighted. As we run, the sun once again sneaks out to cheer, breaking free, and a distant voice calls a warning with careful restrain. But we disregard it as we continue, until one of us stumbles to an abrupt halt. The voice behind us is now triumphant.....

I take in some air as cousin teases my slow legs. The others catch up, not understanding why it was so necessary to misbehave. The skies are swift, they are changing now… from a morose grey to a blushing pink. We quietly watch the city below stir to life, long after us, long after the Chamundi hills. It’s early for the sleepy city, but late for the hills. Here, the day began long ago. The squirrels are active, scuttling about, and the red ants are busy in the undergrowth. I am distracted as I fall in pace with the others, observing. A camera rests dangerously unsafe in my jumpy hands as I try to capture the essence of this experience. It’s a battle of the impulse to capture every existing miracle against the urge to live in the moment....

The mist is gradually fading away, and I capture the last of it. But the dew still clings, insecure and pleading. It’s time for them to evaporate under the emerging sun, and they are unwilling to let go. They hesistantly dissapear.

It’s too early to call this season winter…here, there is a smooth transition from monsoon to the winter months of December and January. September is an orphan, falling nowhere. But we still call September monsoon, because we hope it will rain. Yesterday has not seen any though, but the hills hold hints of monsoon in the smell of the moist earth. Or maybe, it’s just too early to decide...

The morning continues to bloom with its morning glories, and we pause, to admire. We have seen them adorning our flowerpots, but those flowers aren’t nearly this beautiful. They cannot shy away from us. Against all this natural green, their rich purple stands out. They are missing stamens, but look complete, nevertheless. Impatient bees hang about, waiting for us to move away so that they can resume their business. The camera is desperate once more, but the angered bees buzz off, before we get a chance. The butterflies are a little more obliging. They pose, showing off their pretty backs. Three snaps later, I turn away, satisfied. Meanwhile, the skies have moved on to a pearly white…they are now clear and bright...we now realise that we left dawn behind us...




It looks like my turn with the Camera is over. Cousin begs to fiddle with it, and I have to be fair. Reluctantly, I thrust the Camera into cousin’s beseeching hands and he squeals with delight, feeling important. It’s now time to photograph his favorites, and he decides to disturb a sleeping worm. The worm is annoyed, and promptly curls up. He tempts it with some fresh leaves off a fallen branch. We giggle as we think he’s wasting his time. But he’s still a child, after all, and children are never too old to stop trying. He continues, determined. There is another squeal as the worm bites hungrily at the leaves. We gape, as he monkeys around with it. It’s incredible he achieved that! The worm is now dangling, like bait at the end of the fishering pole. And its bait today too…bait for the Camera. We click away madly, and cousin’s frantic voice eggs us on.

Apparently, we are not the only ones who think that the worm is interesting.
A camouflaged kite calls its shrill screetch, announcing its presence. We know we have exposed the worm, but we aren’t sure if it is the target prey. It’s too far to tell if the kite is greedy…our vision is not nearly as good as that of the kite. But we aren't taking any chances. We decide to be saviors and hastily hide the helpful worm among soft September leaves. It looks like worm does not foresee any imminent danger. It continues to chew on its easy breakfast, unconcerned. We share a tensed moment as we strain our eyes for the well-hidden bird which is now screeching a death-note. The omnious note frightens us...we think it foreshadows a disaster. But thankfully, nothing happens. The kite gives up. It flaps its wings and takes off, flying away into the last of the darkness.

Relieved, we turn away, abandoning the worm in the comfort of its lair. Ready and willing, our restless legs carry us on into another adventure, which continues to grow with the awakening morning……

(That means there is a Part 2 to the story!)

"Peppermint Thatha"

I was cleaning up all the clutter on my desktop today, and I chanced upon this ancient folder, which I haden't opened in a while. Curious, I peeked in, and thousands of childhood memories rushed back to me. They were the stories and snippets I had penned three years ago, on the malfunctioning laptop back home. They were written without any specific intentions, before I even thought of creating a blog for myself, before I considered sharing my memories with others....They were written for myself, and they were typed simply because I loved to translate my memories into words. They were written with love, straight from my heart...a bunch of recollections from early childhood that I had then titled "My Heart Remembers". I am sometimes so thankful that I spared the time to write all these things down because they enable me to relive all those experiences. And I have not found a greater joy than in reliving these special memories. I re-read some of my own writings, and turned a little nostalgic.

Anyway, there is a personal favorite from my recollections that I thought deserved some space here. It was my most beloved peice of writing when I was sixteen, because it had come from the heart. And it still remains a favorite today. There are some memories that don't go away, and some things you have written that are cherished forever. "Peppermint Thatha" is one such trivial story that has stayed special to me....and shall remain so, forever....

It is simply titled "Peppermint Thatha*"

(*Thatha=grandpa in Kannada)

(penned on the 6th of December, 2006)

PEPPERMINT THATHA

I think one of the most precious things that help us recollect, analyze and understand our lives are memories. Some of them are vivid pieces of imagination, some of them are mellow and soft instances of our past…but out of those beautiful recollections treasured preciously in our hearts, nothing else brings the joy of our childhood memories. You can brood over them, sit on the porch and remember the old times…the times when Grandpa bought you a lollypop, the day when you flew your first kite, the times you sailed a paper boat in the rains…if you make an effort to remember, childhood memories flash past your mind, faster than the wind. And there is a soft, mellow sort of beauty to them—just remembering brings a soothing pleasure to our souls and warms our hearts. I did just that today, and somewhere from the veil of loosely held memories emerged one little instance—one beloved creature that I had forgotten to remember. He was called “Peppermint Thata”. I don’t know how I could afford to have forgotten him, because he is part of my fondest childhood memories.

Some say we forget our early childhood pretty quickly. It is not the same with me. I can sometimes suddenly recount the days when I was a five year old, all those commonplace instances…I can recite a thousand stories about my past. There are many memories that I cherish, and they are safely preserved…sometimes, when I have nothing to do, I try to relive these small experiences…I search for every hint of a memory, even those wispy little ones which are receding fast…I gather these tender thoughts, and with deliberate effort, I try to remember, or even preserve them in writing. Childhood memories are the golden moments of our lives, and they should not be lost…I want to hold on to them with all my effort. This is why, dear Peppermint Thata, I shall dedicate this piece of my work to you, because I never want to forget you again.

I remember those wonderful evenings…they are etched deeply and vividly in my brain. The crows are cawing overhead and the birds settling in for the night…and the skies painted with a flashy display of orange and yellow. The evening is settling in, and the rumble of the late evening city vehicles can be heard. I am leaning against the gate of the house, dressed in a red frock with a ribbon in the back. I look up and grin towards my friends and they grin back. Then, all of us climb on to the gate and there is a deep, horrendous creak that issues from it as we swing from it madly. The hinges are rusting, and the coconut tree above sways slightly to the evening breeze. The breeze soothes my soul and makes my hair fly as I continue to swing from the gate, overcome by a some wild, childish joy.
Some people remark cautiously,
“Don’t linger under the coconut tree for so long! Can’t you see how it is swaying to the wind?”
The birds are now cawing raucously, and the light is dimming…but nothing can upset our little game—we rule all the gates in the colony, and this little game is our great invention. Ah! What a divine, pleasurable a thing it is to swing from a gate! Well, then my life was limited to my little colony, my friends, my family, my dreams and passions, and anything beyond that was unknown…and anything beyond my life did not matter. It was from this simple, uncomplicated life that I derived most of my happiness…and I must say, there is nothing which I can compare to this strange, wild happiness that I experienced.

Just then, an old man hobbles slowly down the road—the falling leaves and the colorful yellow flowers create a fine carpet for this gentleman, and he smiles, enjoying the pleasurable evening. He leans on his stick and walks slowly, wincing with every step. He is pretty old…his skin is horribly wrinkled and brown, and is cloths are faded and clumsy…but there is nothing to beat that genuine, toothy smile he flashes once in a while. Some people greet him merrily, and he returns the greeting with his smile and continues down the road, slowly…silently.
Just as his weak shadow falls into the line of my vision, I spin around…there he is! With a spurt of natural excitement, I run towards him madly, screaming with joy, closely followed by my friends. It is time for our daily celebration—we surround him like vile robbers, screaming, “Peppermint! Peppermint!”
We all know what is hiding in that small pocket of his…a treasure trove of goodies! He stares at our eager faces and smiles…we are tugged on his shirt now, demanding what rightfully belongs to us…he puts his old, blue-veined hands into the pocket and slowly, much too slowly, brings out a plastic bag filled with peppermints! Those brightly colored, delicious goodies catch the last light of the evening sun…making them even more colorful and hard to resist.
“Peppermint Thata! We want Peppermints!” we scream, mouth-watering…almost begging.
“Alright…alright…” says our old man. He is fair and just, because he gives us all an equal share. Well, an equal share means all of us get much too less…we are quick to gobble it up…ah, such a nice treat for the taste buds! But that is only momentary because the treat has now disappeared down our throats….and I am greedy. I want more of it…and I will stop at nothing to get what I want.
“I want more!” I scream, “Please give me some more,”
It is a known fact that Peppermint Thata’s pocket is always overflowing with goodies…he never ever runs out of peppermints. He smiles and says,
“Well, I’ll give you some more tomorrow…now all of you go home like good girls,”
We never usually listen to anyone, but I don’t know what makes me obey his commands. There is a strange aura to this man…he says things with rosy benevolence and a smile…and dreamily, I follow his commands, like a petty servant. I am ready to do anything for more peppermints…I wave goodbye to my friends and go inside the house.

I emerge stealthily after twenty minutes and guiltily stare at my surroundings, trying to see if anyone is looking. I am treacherous to my friends in this one aspect….but I am also overcome by liking for peppermints. I know that Peppermint Thatha returns from his walk by this time…I stand watch and wait for him. Ah yes…I can see him now…hobbling slowly, he emerges into the street light. I resist myself till he comes to my house and then, I run to him cautiously and stretch out my hand and whisper,
“ Peppermint,”
He laughs merrily and says, “ Tomorrow,”
I shake my head. “Today,” I murmur.
“ Alright…alright,” he chuckles, “ Today.”
Once again, I receive a handful of peppermints. I quickly gobble them up…now I am satisfied. I nod to myself, and let him pass…and then he walks away, chuckling to himself and moving away from me, away from the dim street lights…


Ultimately, there came a day when we assumed we were too old to sheepishly beg for peppermints and stopped asking for peppermints…and slowly, Peppermint Thata was not noticed by us…him walking down the road did not matter so much to us anymore. Now, when I think of it, I do feel bad…I never got to know that old man’s real name.
Peppermint Thata died a few days after that. He slipped in the toilet, and it was a fatal fall. Somehow, he disappeared from my life as mysteriously and quietly as he had come.
It is true that all the kids in our road loved peppermint Thata more than any other neighbor. Something about his genuine love for children, his toothy smile and his gentle, calming manner bought joy and liveliness to our otherwise mundane city life. I truly liked him…and I don’t know if everybody remembers Peppermint Thata today. But I must say I do…I remember that man so well. He will always remain the same loving, gentle old “ Peppermint Thata” in my memory.