Painting Classes

The medium of instruction was noise: the kids were to be messy, noisy, and themselves, recording all that in their sketchbooks. Sunkad sir of the Indian Institute of World Culture was no ordinary man, and his expert painting skills called for much attention. I was ten when Amma dropped me off to painting classes in the hopes that I’d blossom into the next Michelangelo. I’ll be modest and say that I almost got there, but in my defense, being terrified does things to your bloated self confidence. The Indian Institute of World Culture was an old building. I was petrified in the beginning—scared of  the oils and acrylics that stared down on me from every corner, uncanny creations of vivacity, skill and drama. It was a strange, ancient place—a living relic.

The outer verandah was all of a roomy vastness, filtered lights, and walls decorated with a gaudy relevance: it was the documentation of the works of previous students, a history recorded in progression.  It was beneath these proud paintings that the teenage artists huddled in groups, squeezing bright colors on the palette. Occasionally, one could crack a joke and the laughter would awaken like a whiplash, travelling around the room—with a loud, raucous, crackling brashness that would eventually saturate the space. In an attempt at bravado, I’d smile: trying to belong in jokes and groups that I hadn't understood. They'd ignore me and continue like Sunkad sir wasn't listening. He’d say something mild then, from inside his office. But the chortles would effectively drown him out. I was afraid.

The less experienced painters and the little miss-nothings would squat in the very back, on smaller tables designed just for them. It was dark with the shadows here. He called for the new students on the first day and asked us to paint whatever we wanted, a freedom in choice, medium, and ideas. I had heard nothing like that before. I painted thoughtlessly, weakly….enjoying it, a little less scared. I would grow accustomed to this place.

As the days rolled, the weak sketches turned into fearless strokes, and the brushes became more varied. Newer sketch books: I was progressing at an amazing pace, and yet nobody would have guessed such rapid improvement by how calm I appeared to be when I was sitting there with my colors, thoroughly absorbed and concentrating. Those were peaceful and languid evenings: lazy, beautiful and creative...where possibilities tiptoed into my head as I moved my brush now with a more refined, gracefully natural cadence, where I balanced color with sensibility, mixed emotion with acrylic. Those evenings  exuded an easy charm that I now nostalgically recollect: when I packed my things to head back home, it was always with the sense of profound contentment and achievement: today, I had created something new that nobody else in the world had painted the exact same way, with the exact same brushes, with the exact same ideas. The very thought was appealing.

The people who had graduated the low tables sat on high chairs at the long wooden benches in the inner verandah, and they were vigorous sketchers. They stayed away from the misbehaving teenage painters of the outer hall, and were marked by many lines of wrinkled maturity on their faces. There was a density to their talks, sketches and everything about them. The HB 2 pencils lay scattered around as they produced images with such terrifying accuracy and expert skill that I’d stand in awe and gape. I wanted to earn a greeting from them. I wanted to get there.

I understood what inspiration meant. I understood how images could create emotion, how they could stir feelings. I learnt so many things as I sat there on the low benches, in the shadows with my Camlin paints. I was beginning to learn harder. Aspiration started bearing fruit in a creative head. Sooner or later, the high table with the society of the best sketchers would call on me. Three sketch books later, one painting had made it to the art exhibit. And it was already the end of the year. The high table was still oblivious.

“It’ll take about five years to get there,” Sunkad sir used to say. And I was truly waiting for that day.

I'm still waiting

Art—a favorite childhood pastime was buried in my love of books that dominated all my other tastes, interests and choices. Nothing I’ve ever done has found a more abrupt halt. The love for the written word robbed my interest in images, and in case, I was moving away from Bangalore.
I remember bidding farewell to the place.  From then on, I’ve never picked up a paint brush, never found the inclination to, never even desired.

Until yesterday.

I don't know what prompted me to pick the brush up again. I was reading R.K. Narayan’s “Bachelor of Arts” recently, and flipped through the pages. Vivid images of how I imagined the character of Chandran flashed into my conscious thought. I decided ten years was long enough a wait. It was time to pick up the brush and paint—however clumsily, however pathetically, however crudely.

And “Penance” took shape.

The beginnings of “The Penance“—before I got to painting the beard.

This is with increased saturation standards, just for fun, I was playing with it in Picasa.

The sepia gives a old-worldly, nostalgic effect that i find an essential component of the painting that I couldn’t bring to focus, so i took a little help. 

Every stroke was discovery. I felt contentment so complete that I’ve never felt anything like it in the recent years: it was the silent joy of rediscovery, the kind of joy that escapes sensible thought. Every stroke took me back to the peaceful evenings in the verandah's of the Indian Institute of World Culture, where I used to walk past the high table, in hope of belonging with the expert painters.

I hope the high table is proud of me. If they aren’t, well, I’m still trying. As I used to say, ten years ago, Someday, I'll get there. Trying is all that matters.

Dearest Uncle Pai,

Dearest Uncle Pai,

There were days when I used to open up my window to see the world like never before. Those were the days when I was ten, and fairytales were as real to me as the sun, moon, and school.  Those were the days when I used to dream up silly stories, or scribble to myself. And even if the world wouldn’t listen to those little stories, there was always this reassurance that you would, someday. Because you see, the folks at Tinkle listened. Shikari Shambu listened when I told him about that purple tiger that I had hunted down on an android in space. Tantri the Mantri listened when I talked to him about an exotic flower in Cambodia whose fragrance was super deadly. And I knew that you would listen. You always did.

I felt heroic when I was backseated on Amma’s rickety Luna on the way to a cousin’s house where I would get to read my tinkles--- when she visited that Tailor shop, I would snoop away next door to the paperwaala to haggle some older copies with my piggy- bank money. I used to sneak them into school, and read them below the benches when Nalini Ma’m taught Romeo and Juliet. The tinkle book labels you sent me were all over my Science and English books. The Fun Time with Uncle Pai’s and the Say it yourself competitions—I solved them with fervor. I felt proud to be recognized as a tinkle kid—to tell them that you were my inspiration. I told that to anyone who listened. And I truly meant those words. You were my HERO.

You know, when people laughed at my stories, I’d go cry and recite them to you in my head all the way home. And somehow, I always felt that you were listening.  It made me feel so much better. It was such comfort to somebody who didn’t really believe in herself back then. 

As if talking to you within my head wasn't enough, I one day I mustered enough courage to walk up to the post office to mail you that first letter with my story. I remember the wait. And I also remember that hand-written letter that came back, asking me to “never give up.” And so, I listened. I retold you my stories all over again---and you made my dreams come true, like a beautiful, beautiful miracle. That exotic flower in Cambodia that was super deadly became “The fatal fragrance” in May 2008 issue, and my first fight with a best friend became the “The Rivals” in 2006. You shaped the writer in me, gave her that much confidence to believe in her dreams. And yes, I never gave up—and it was only because my favorite person had asked me to.

And I hope you’ll believe me if I say that no pay-check I got was more beautiful than that one handwritten letter that I’ve been meaning to frame, or every memorized word of that message you sent me wishing me all the best for Bangalore Amar Tinkle Club. Its unbelievable how much you’ve changed my life for the better, how to instilled confidence in me, how you became much more than a role-model, how you truly impacted my life... I wish I could write all that down and just mail it all to heaven. That’s still possible, right? 

And oh, if you do meet Mr. Ram Weerkar up there, could you mind telling him that I’m still his hugest fan ever? I used to skunk my way into the school library just to read his Pyarelal series when I was fourteen and everybody else was already reading the Sidney Sheldon’s. It was to show them that in my heart, I'd never outgrow tinkle even if I become as ancient as the oldest banyan tree in all of India. Those were the little things I always wanted to tell you. You kept that little ten year old in me alive. You still do.

And yes, as you said, I’ll never give up. You know this little starry-eyed fan will always listen to you, right?

And yeah, I’m asking Janoo for a little help with a magic potion. It’s called the potion of immortality. She promised to give it to you. Or else I’m riding Wooly Woo all across the seven seas and the open sky to battle the rakshasas and fire-spitting rascally demons  to bring you back. Such an adventure that will be!!!

I’ll miss you so much, really. I’m still waiting for that last letter that never came home. Please come back. I need to tell you about how I started a storytelling page called Tellmeyourstories and how you are an eternal inspiration to the storyteller in me. I need to tell you how you will always be, and how dearly I'm missing you with every single second. I'm waiting for the letter that never came home. And the wait, dear uncle, is with a fervent sincerity.

Affectionately yours,

Lakshmi

Knitted with Love: A favorite sweater story

The cardboard box had arrived late that evening and I wasn’t particularly charmed. They had practiced hoarding these boxes like it was all a matter of safety, by some insane standards of measure. When another was dragged in, I was presumptuous enough as to think they’d take it back to the storeroom to craft something of their proud garbage. But they left it abandoned at my feet, partially opened.

I wish, time allowing, I could explore the intricate mysteries of unopened boxes. You are quite a happy humbug sitting there idling your time—place a cardboard box beneath your feet and it changes the whole equation. Oh, the insurmountable curiosities that eat you, at the sight of these things!! Elusive opportunities slinking away and smiling, a weird temptation that refuses to abandon tugging—it is a compelling sort of gravity. I had to concede, and this would turn out all different.

I gaped at the little box that I had stumbled upon. The shadows were shiftless, somewhat solid. From within, the unknown fed anticipation and thousands of speculative wanderers traveled my electric roads, flashing their thoughts and disappearing again. Which might it contain? Books? A gift? An exotic foreign souvenir? A lamp? Kitchen equipment? Clothes? Woodwork?

It was a submersion into a well-known curiosity that hung tenaciously from the child-like mind, anticipating. I was eager. The hands knew no manners as they pried at the contents, and everything was scattered on the floor: a disappointing arrangement. But then, the blandest of prizes struggled to make itself conspicuous from among the rubble. I had chanced upon a prize, hiding in the spoils.

“Look, a sweater.” I held it close, and carried it away—a simple, oversized sweater, and a story, knitted with love.

Later that day, the reflection wasn’t anything that made me catch my breath in surprise. I could safely say that the sweater accentuated my hideousness by a very good measure, oversized as it was. On its strands, a coffee-brown competed with navy blues and magentas, giving off a dull, obvious effect. But I liked it. I liked it for the warmth, for the simplicity, for containing me. I liked it for the imperfections, for knowing that I could be spilling my tea on it next morning and not fuss. There was an awful familiarity that was threaded into its fabric that traversed through it, and snugly surrounded all of me. I felt loved in that sweater. I felt happy, I felt me. It was just perfect for my winter days. Maybe not beauty-pageant worthy, definitely, but this piece of coarse wool would belong in my closet: my only sweater for now.

“It’s hideous. It’s used. Throw it away.”

It was brutally honest opinion, and I couldn’t argue the judgment of connoisseurs. But knowledgeable as I was, the sweater…came to stay. Varied excuses were pronounced, laziness showcased, the complains whined and cloths arranged. There were a splendid variety of reasons to throw the sweater away, but no reason was simply good enough. Call it my attachment, but the sweater came to remain a permanent part of my closet. It was like retaining a lovely secret, because I knew I could never outgrow it.

The commonplace holds in it more pleasant, nostalgic joy that I seldom find in everything else, it is something of a particular rarity, something that we can overlook. And the sweater had come like some naive misfit in my heap of cloths: beautifully unique, absolutely special.

I wore it all through the winter of 2009, even to college. That, of course, could be termed as a loss of sanity: I risked not appearing human. But more worn the sweater, the less hideous it appeared. It became my personal invisibility cloak, the dull coffee-brown allowing for the effortless merge into the common masses, rendering me unnoticeable. I loved it for its apparent humbleness, for being so unmindful of fashion, design or priority. The coarseness had a brave, determined originality to it, and the sweater told me it’s story: when I was slouching on the couch, when I was hugging my knees in it, as I admired the snow when I was holidaying in Tahoe, on new year’s eve as I screamed my throat off to a song, as I flipped through my physics book spilling food all over it, as I walked home in the freezing cold, grateful for the crude wool that surrounded me.

It didn’t seem like much, but it actually was—my favorite sweater. And it was part of some spectacular memories. It travelled with me through so many experiences, always exuding an air of ancient, persevering love. I often wondered who knitted it.

A classmate seemed to notice after millions of years, “Seems like your grandmother knitted, no?”

It was an obvious generalization, and it would have been easy to lie as a justification. Yes, the only reason why I wear something so hideous is because my grandmother knitted it and it’s of a sentimental value. Or else, which fool would wear something so appalling? Instead, I told her I was absolutely clueless. She must have gone home thinking I was thrifty enough to pull off stuffy unknown sweaters from Goodwill store, but I didn't really care. It just made me love the sweater that much more.

A few days ago, a guest was expected. The proud and proper dresses were all lined up and waiting. I picked the hideous sweater instead and smiled. I somehow seemed to look winsome. The guest had apparently been father’s good friend, and dropped by to say hello.

His exchange of pleasantries was the strangest of conversations.

“Hey, where’d you buy that sweater, if I may ask?”

It was an interesting question, and I had but an honest answer. “It came with a box of cloths that my parents bought home in a carton box once. I didn’t really bother to trace its origins.”

“That’s the sweater my mom knitted for me, couple of years ago, you know.”

The amusement hit me like a bullet.

“Really?”

“Umm-hmm. Jeez, I didn’t know what happened to it! I searched all over the place for the sweater and gave up after a while. It’s very special to me. My mom was suffering with a case of dementia during those days, and was wildly hallucinating. Being left home alone was her nightmare…she found herself helpless, agitated and unable to distinguish the real from the unreal. During those times of horror and despair, knitting was something of a respite to her. It eased her nerves, and she did it beautifully. Even though everything appeared so confusing to her, there was a dedicated expertise to what she wove, it was so wonderful. It’s maybe because she knitted with love, you know? Every cross-hatch on that sweater was healing to her. I know that she cannot knit another sweater like that anymore….now she’s nearly blind in one eye. ”

When they said that history contributes to value, I guess they meant this. Somewhere, in the back of my heart, there was a gentle tug. It was like I had known the sweater’s incredible story somewhere, like I had realized its value: whispered in secrecy. And today, I found a reason—a reason for having retained the sweater as a favorite. I could now turn back to the classmate and complete the answer: “Do you know how special this is? It was part of a healing process for an old lady with dementia…but more than all of that, it was knitted with love.”

I had the answers. I had the justification. But I wouldn’t have the sweater anymore.

I watched the sweater leave me, as suddenly as it had entered my life. The guest didn't ask for it, but I thought it was only too proper to have it wrapped up and returned. As I touched the coarse, shabby fabric for one last time, I was grateful for having experienced that love for at least that much longer. For all it’s worth, I knew today that the best sweaters weren't the cashmere that you buy at extravagant shops like Macy's. They are those which keep you warm not only because they are expensive. There is a  magic ingredient to such things.....and it's called love.   

Time for a change

“A pile of rocks ceases to be a pile of rocks the moment a human mind contemplates it as a cathedral.”

Those works were painted on glass, somewhere in a cozy corner of your typical downtown museum. They made their way into my notebook yesterday, and eventually into my curious mind. I liked those words enough to ponder them quite deeply.

When you start something, you start it with a purpose. A vision. A dream, a thought. And this blog, it seems, is all about a very personal evolution. In all these years of growing up and growing out of teenage, I have contemplated a lot. More often than not, this space has been more about ME than anything else. I don’t talk about global economics, ending world poverty or architecture. I talk about me. It’s always been that way.

Looks like my pile of rocks is similar to the millions of others that have been constructed all across the blogosphere: A little personal home, stuffed with insights, thoughts and ramblings. And then I thought about those cathedrals, you know. I thought about turning my home into a little cathedral, to allow for other incredible stories to reach this space: to talk more about THEM than just about ME. I thought about stitching something more into my fabric: Stories of the lives of others mingling with my personal experiences. Stories of a journey: not just through pictures of words, but through the very miracle that is the human experience. It's time to bring a change, and I think it's never too late to start.

Recently, I’ve been hearing so much that it would be an injustice not to talk about them: Stories of hope, of valor, of incredible courage and optimism. And they are not all mine. Some come from those everyday individuals that brush the mere surface of my personal experience. And yet, these spectacular stories of their struggles and ambitions penetrate deep into my consciousness to leave me spell-bound. They have moved me, deeply. They are true, incredible and wonderful. And I thought that it was time to bring it all to you, to establish a platform for their voices to reach more people—to touch more lives, to inspire, to teach. And in the back of my heart, this is what I've always wanted to do.  I’ve always been a better storyteller than an orator. You see, there is a difference. I think it’s time to write,...... a little less selfishly. Because others, have stories too--stories just waiting to be told, if we only lend an ear.

A few weeks ago, I started the Tellmeyourstories series. It’s everything I’ve discussed above. It’s about personal stories. Not just mine. It's yours, and theirs and mine. It’s something that we can all relate to and understand: stories of endurance, tenacity, hope, and determination. Some, even aim to highlight those who have been shadowed by time, distress and age. I have been away and infrequent, if you have noticed. This is because I have been working hard to learn the art of photography to help augment my writing. It’s been tough, but I hope it takes me somewhere in the end. I am still learning.

This blog will continue to be all it’s been: a little personal space to describe my experiences. But it will also be a little more than it’s always been: a personal space to describe other people’s experiences too, when I decide to turn the storyteller. Some of these stories come from the way I have perceived them. Others, in the way I have heard them. They are all true stories of human experience. In whichever way, I hope to bring them to you and I hope you’ll like it.

I’m back, folks! And it’s time to tell stories. Yours, mine and theirs.

Because, as I’ve mentioned on countless occasions before….everybody has a story to tell.
I hope you stay with me through this journey.

Much Love,

Lakshmi



They come with their stories

I

He’s slouching on the chair, weariness traversing the contours of his face. He has his head low as if to discipline an unnecessary reverie. A few words exchange and he finally looks this way. The brazen, penetrating eyes startle me. Somehow, they don’t seem to belong in a face so harrowed. Because the eyes have fire in them.

The doctor introduces me as an intern, and explains that I’m shadowing. I muster a meek smile and melt into the dark. A story unfolds.

“Liver Cancer,” the oncologist talks, more to himself. “How do you feel?”

“Okay.”


“You look good!”


“Well, I’m trying to.”

They talk prescription drugs and medications. The wife stays by his side, appearing natural and tolerant of the situation. She occasionally smiles, even. He is serious and sounds grave with his complaints, but she balances the talk beautifully, puncturing the gloomy conversation with something refreshing, an unusual question maybe. She’s trying hard to be cheerful, for the both of them. I pray for her to hang in there.

They’re good questions, the doctor says. We’ll do everything.

He sits back properly now, like somebody eager. Like somebody who knows he’s going to live. Like somebody who is reveling in that knowledge, like somebody who is sure of himself............

I am rather self-conscious and try to be as non-intrusive as possible. It is strange to just disappear into a corner and watch the biggest battle of life and not do anything about it.

The fire in his brilliant blue eyes still startle me. They talk progresses showing no sign of halting. He looks bored now, a little sober, I can see as they shake hands and head out the door. And then just as I start to think--- suddenly, we are done. As I scuttle after the doctor, the eyes flash with a ghost of a little hope. Something about those eyes introduce a little optimism to an agitated heart.

“Is he okay?” I ask hopefully.

“The cancer for this guy is in a serious stage. It’s metastasized to different parts of his body. So many cells to kill. It’s going to be real serious.”

The words leave me aghast. They have been brave.

______________________________________________________________________

II

The gravity if the situation is heavy in the next room, almost as heavy as the face that holds a countless wrinkles. There are pleas in this face, pleated in with the sorry helplessness of a silent sufferer. He rambles his burdens incessantly. There is no anger. No venom. No contempt. Just a complete acceptance. The weak voice is trying to push its point across, and the doctor grants him the time. As he struggles to make himself clear, his soft features mould into something empathetic, a weak-hearted attempt to look confident.

“Don’t you worry, we’ll make it go away. We’ll work as a team. We’re going to get together and come up with a nice plan for you. I’m sure we can do wonders.”

“Whatever you say.” His acceptance is unbelievable. I try to say something. The gravity is working on his shoulders, which look more burdened than I have ever seen.

I know I have to say something….but his pessimistic countenance leaves me bereft of words, the hopeless face is ridden with far more worries than I can read......

______________________________________________________________________

III

“Maa.    Maaa…..”

She stirs a very very slowly, lazily. The freckled hands shakily reach out—searching, expectant. Immediately, they land in the daughter’s. They’re perfect—the ancient one interlocking the much younger one that she helped create. “I’m here, maa…”

“Myeloma.” He says, “Do you know what that is?”

I nod.

We proceed.

The lady is listless. She cuddles back into her chair, like it will shelter her from all this incredulous nonsense. She is almost nodding now, fighting the sleep. The tired eyes are blinking, hazy and are dimmed by perpetual worry. Why? I don’t understand, the insolence seems to say. “Why do you make me undergo this at the age where I’d rather be doing something else? Cancer is such complete nonsense!”

There is sparse energy to her, but she’s managing. She’s pulling through. She knows she has to. I know she has been performing, and they are taking good care of her. There have been slightly depressing statistics lately, but there are better cures.

The daughter has a careful air. She is undaunted. Soon, the Myeloma should be gone. She tells me that I look awfully familiar, and I tell her I should meet her sometime. As I bid goodbye, I actually wish to never see her again. The hospital is not a nice place to make your home.

I look back. The ancient one has now dozed off, in quiet, instantaneous escape from all the torment. She has found her paradise, an exit, a way. In her own cradle, she must be going back to the times when life when she was young and unbothered by stressful excursions. I hope they will leave her unhampered for hours.

______________________________________________________________________

IV

“He’s here.”

Kind, I think. It’s a kind face, a gracefully aged face, looking content today. “Thanks for calling me in today, doctor. I think you are doing a wonderful job. I believe in you.” He encourages.

“And you too, ma’m.” I return the pleasant smile. I like him.

The beautiful, intelligent face of the daughter is scribbling on a clipboard, keen and concerned.

“We’ll fix you.” The doctor promises.

The face is tremulous. A deep contentment oozes across it, reminding me of someone who is on the brink of an epic achievement. He is somebody who has lived his years well. He sighs, and then picks himself up again. “I know I can.”

“As long as you believe, I know you can too.” I talk to him within my head. We disperse. I’m touched by how the daughter affectionately walks him into the corridor. I wish to be more like her with my own father.

______________________________________________________________________

V 

“Here, we get many cases.” The doctor says, shuffling some pages. “And some of them are medical miracles. Like this lady. When she came in with lung cancer and an aggressive metastasis to different parts of the body, her CEA was so very high. They’ve dropped incredibly; she’s going to be an amazing survivor. She truly is a miracle.”

We heard you through the door, the husband says cordially. And we agree.

The experience has thawed her a little. I can only imagine the horrors she has faced. The voice is sharp, like a saw. She speaks in spurts, but with a depth gained only through experience. This woman is much more than just another survivor. She’s a marvel, a fighter, an inspiration.

And as I watch the miracle from a distance, I am overwhelmed. Life feels such a magnanimous gift, and some of us have to fight hard to preserve it, so securely. And as I glance upon pictures of such heroes staring back at me from glossy magazines, I feel the true magnitude of the emotion to its sincere depths. It’s time to move on.

Again and again. We see the defiant one, who refuses any treatment even if it risks her health; the shy eighty-year old who retires into her shell and talks little; the ambient and jovial young man who behaves like nothing’s the matter, the nervy and shaky soul that squeaks out in distress. I meet eyes that scream an apprehension, hope, love, trust, grit, confidence, persistence, and a mixture of many other things. The chemotherapy sessions. The nurses. The office. A biopsy. A bone marrow extraction. The world is whirling. My feelings are threatened; I’m befuddled, not knowing what exactly to feel. Everything descends on me like a comic tragedy fashioned by the gods: the baseless and shallow happiness of my life contrasting with the profundity in all these stories. My life feels inconsequential….so passing….irrelevant in front of the goliaths that come here. They are fighters. Survivors. Sometimes, soldiers. And this heart can only touch at the surface of their experiences, only wonder, only surmise….but even that much changes everything.
______________________________________________________________________

VI:

“The last one for today.”

I really start hoping that this is going to be different.

I know with an immediate certainty that this woman is unusual. For one, she is quietly chucking to herself and in jogging shoes. That is the first cancer patient I’ve seen today with that much genuine happiness. Even I appear more worried than her. I have to remind myself of that and correct my expression.

The brash, aggressive warmth in this punk-star and the effortless humor that tells me that despite everything, she is madly in love with life. She’s celebrating her last chemotherapy session. The triumph is alive, yelling from all over.

“So, you tell me that’s it? That I can’t come back? Oh my gosh, how rude to throw me out! For Pete’s sake, who will I tell my jokes to?”

The doctor cracks up. And then, we’re all laughing.

And as I let it go in the meaningless chortles in a sequestered room stuffed with its charts and prescriptions and languid white walls, I am grateful--grateful I came, that I tried to understand. Grateful that I was alive and that was so easy for me. To see life with its raw truths, unfolding and fighting to hang on, to see it for its unpredictability, its philosophy, its endurance….to see it through the veil of time: to see how different people face it—with courage, hope, optimism, grit, or triumph….within a single day… had moved me beyond expression, beyond rational thought, beyond everything. Today, I had seen a side of life that would have avoided even my imagination. I had stared courage right in the face.

___________________________________________________________________

Outside, I lifted my head up to the heavens and closed my eyes. The sun worked a mysterious charm, leaving trinkets on my skin. I inhaled some of the life around me, not knowing how much longer it would last. But despite the stories, despite the statistics, despite the pains, despite the daily struggles and hassles, despite the uncertainity, there was some amazing power to human endurance. Never had I come this close to understanding the human element, and it's inborn struggle for survival.. Despite everything, existence was beautiful.  And it was always stay that way.

Forever.

______________________________________________________________________

And then she headed out the door

(This is a true story, but narrated from my own view point. The descriptions are based on how I have perceived the story. )

They were a group of good friends. A particularly boisterous crowd, peculiar in the sorts of people it included. The peculiarity is what made them noticeable, making these bunch of talented oddballs stand out. They would go on to become some different people, entangle themselves in different situations, and face very different destinies. But back then, at that point in time, they were all students. More importantly, they were friends. And that’s all that mattered.

She was the laconic one. The loyal and timid follower. Prone to being overlooked, but contributing to conversations in her own ways. First glances can lie, however, because there was definitely more to her.

An emotional and tender heart is what she concealed, there was a purity and richness to her thoughts. She felt with deep intensity, and the heart of her stories had more stuff than most others. Hers was to be a perfectly normal life too—studies, marriage, family, kids. But anticipation found a place in her life, because she expected so much out of such experiences even amidst the monotony that surrounded her. The 1980’s didn’t hold too many opportunities, and yet, there was space enough to strive hard and make the most of it. Something to make for herself, a professional life to craft. She wanted a fairytale, extraordinary as her wishes. And they thought she wouldn’t have it.

Defeating many others to it, she studied engineering and was hailed an intelligent academician. They cheered her then, naturally happy for her achievement.  She excelled, and then they thought that her future was falling in place, a secure and happy life was in store. Back then, it wasn’t hard to ascertain futures. More rigid rules, less flexibility allowed for most things to go as planned. A predictably hectic and pleasantly busy life was what seemed to be at the other end of the tunnel. That meant she was settling down. Those were the good times.

He, on the other hand was a different sort of a personality. He knew how to focus his energies, and there was a determined fervour to him. He could concentrate incredibly, on top of being impossibly intelligent. This could be the only explanation of how he made it to medical school. Dedicated and passionate, he worked hard. The group was happy for his phenomenal qualities, and proud that he belonged with them. Occasionally, the age old joke of how they could get free treatment from him if their health bothered them might have passed between them. They were a group of oddballs all right. But such talented oddballs. With such amazing influence, and an influx of diverse talent, there was little doubt that all of them would blossom. The future held promises of that.

They met, they talked, they joked like friends were supposed to. They dispersed into many fields, and kept in touch. For the laconic and shy one, the fairytale was coming true. Engaged to a smart boy from overseas, she couldn't possibly ask for more. She would get to travel the world, much of a big deal back then. Sweets exchanged, such a tempting proposal didn’t go back rejected. The friends cheered this time too.

“See,” they must have said, “Your life is going to be a fairytale. Much better than us.”

She married young, and married quick. Bound by the security that a wedding bestows, she allowed for her husband to fly away with his words of loving comfort and promises.

“You can come too, I’ll make sure you can come with me. Very soon.”

Such assurances.

Yes, her life was in place. Just this little quirk. But the cloud would pass. She would get to see the world yes, and it would be a romantic affair. A fantasy was to be lived. She must have waved goodbye with those dreams clouding her eyes.

The friends were wiggling into different permanent relationships too. The years rolled, the invitations distributed, the kids born, the complaints discussed. Some had heartbreaks, some difficult love marriages, some bland arranged ones. Even the boy who went to medical school was a doctor now. And the smart husband still wasn’t back.  The assurance still sounded empty. They were all still her buddies. The friends were old now, and hers became the only fairytale not realised.

No, she wouldn’t have it. She had always stitched together a perfect life for herself, excelling. She would find a way to get to him. Even if he was unwilling for that fate, she would try. She was a wife, rightfully is. She belonged with him. So she tried and found a way.

She visited her close friend. Her favourite in the crowd, the one who went on to become a banker.

“Parvathi, I’m going to be travelling finally! I will get to meet my husband and live with him.” She told her banker friend gleefully. The girl converted money to dollars and then she headed out the door, towards a welcoming future. Parvathi must have thought that.

There was no door. They heard of her suicide a few days later.

Parvathi and the rest of the friends visited the funeral, and the charred body told a sorry tale of shattered dreams. It was a fairytale that stayed incomplete. A phone call from the husband saying that he didn’t want her, the news that he was already secretly married to somebody else, the severe depression that the intense disappointment that it provided, some kerosene and a matchstick was all it took. The flames engulfed the dreams, the fairytale, the expectation, the incredible friend, the loving wife. They ate her away.

The doctor later received a body for post mortem. A charred corpse, the sorts he would see every other day in his medical career. The intelligent brain could accurately describe the severity of the burns.. Another dead body, another day. But this time, the burnt body meant a little more to him. He knew of this blackened inanimate form when it had a life, when it spoke to him. When it joked and participated in his conversations. When it was his dear friend. It wasn’t just another day for the doctor. It was agonizing to have fate lay a dead friend before him for medical examination. But he must have found the truth then, that a person is much more than a dead body. A friend, she would always stay. Out of the millions of cases that came to the hospital for post mortem, it was the twist of fate that one of his close friends must lie here before him, lifeless. As he examined her, her story came alive. It was hard to see her dead. Maybe her story wasn’t a fairytale, but it would be remembered. By the doctor. By Parvathi. By the friends. By me.

I heard it in between errands, in between thrusting sweets into tiny plastic covers and answering Ajji. I heard it without giving much thought to it, as aunt spoke to grandpa about it. It’s about a somebody I don’t know, about a somebody I never met. But it is a touching story about a friend, about dreams and about the interesting twist of fate.

And I thought it was a story worth telling you. Fate behaves differently with people, and differs as much as people do. Stories come and go, and times change. But some stories are remembered more than others. And such stories need to be shared. It is when I share these profound tales of human experience that I feel, as a writer, I have completed a duty. I hope that she will be remembered.

Because she deserved a fairytale. Because once upon a time, she was more than a charred blackened body with degree 2 burns that came for a post mortem one fine morning.

I know that the doctor will agree with me.

Going Home

19th August 2010

Dear Journal,

It takes a lot to be someone different. Someone special. Someone worthy….and someone responsible. But it takes little, to be someone happy. I’m happy today, amongst the clouds, flying—with both my heart and all the rest of me. And it feels like I’m too light for anything to matter. Anything to matter at all. They do that to you sometimes, the clouds….don’t they? Poets write so much of them for nothing, you know. They are worthy of emulation. Of imagination, of utter wonder.

The clouds.

And they’re clouding my mind…as they traverse, moving all around and into me, punishing clarity as they weave into my dreams, thread into the fabric of my stories causing such an extraordinary magnification of a sunny mood. They leave space for only one thought—that I am going home. The idea that I am going home, that I am going to be seeing my friends, that I will get to talk to them, that I will get to belong, and glancing upon all those people I hold close, that I love, that I would wish to meet, all the rest of my family….this time, I’ll be there. Among them. Belonging.

It brings back a warmth, the sort of half-forgotten warmth akin to the reminding love in old grandpa’s oversized sweater or the delight in finding loose change that you never knew was there in a pocket. Accomplishments have come and gone. I’ve worked harder, tapping motivation in the most bizarre ways, and surprisingly found that I do foster an incredible amount of self-contentment for everything that occupies my life. I’ve moved from eighteen to nineteen, I’ve trained my legs to be more nimble, learnt to endure the hot sun of California knowing of hidden respites and new possibilities, to leave estrangements behind to laugh like everything is just a joke. Despite every occasional tantrum I throw and my unkindly longish whines…I am satisfied here. Happy, loved and striving. There is so much to find, so many new things. There is cheer, there is hope, there is the passion for working hard for my dreams….but it doesn’t mask the fact that I’ve missed them. They’re a part of me that I could never quite leave behind.

Every time I talk to them from behind a screen, or through mute pictures, or in the pages of a diary…..I feel that I am just skimming the skin, just a little bite of the other side of the globe. Although I have tried, with painful consistency, to reach out and bother myself with what happens in their day to day lives—to live both here and there…it has been difficult. Sometimes, I have done this at a cost of forgetting my beautiful present, sometimes even at the cost of my time and patience. But I have still held onto them. Adapting to a new place, to new people, to new ways, doesn’t mean that you have to forget all that life was, all the people who were there and all the people who still are--All those who have tried to push you through, to be your shoulder, to help, to advice, or yell at you through a headphone when you’re doing something wrong….all those who are deserving of your gratitude.

And today, everything seems to fit in so well. Everything feels right. Flying home again, to where I know that I can feel the monsoons moist my skin and invade me with a favorite glee, where I can barge into a darshini and savor a filter coffee for an affordable price, where I don’t need fancy chairs to sit on, when there’s that old Jamakhana on which I could stretch my legs, where I can scoot into random bazaars and side lanes in search of fancy earrings, where I can travel the polluted and jam packed roads, back seated and talking to a cousin, not really minding on all the jams and the honking, where I can hear my name pronounced correctly, , where some relatives try to approach me in English instead of in Kannada assuming that I would have forgotten, where I can bustle about at important marriages feeling the weight of many eyes on me, where midnight dreams come alive as the coconuts sway to august winds outside the window next to which I grew up, building more dreams and staring at those very same trees, where all my childhood books stay intact and reachable, where illusions are flesh and blood, where I know that I will be absolutely surrounded, sleep-deprived, pampered, pinched, overwhelmed…..and still be very very happy.

I feel like somebody happy.

Like somebody among the clouds.

I can see that silver lining—both outside my window and within grasp of an invisible future. New Horizons are emerging.

Something tells me this is going to be an adventure.