My father passed away on Christmas 2011. It was a hard five months before that, with his illness and my parents' and my collective despair but he fought bravely. The dark situation brought us closer, made us realise our love and faith and brought us to squeeze as much as possible out of life. Books, music, movies and conversation helped. But his agony was too much to bear, for he was a liver of life. So eventually his passing turned out to be his liberation.
But of course, it's terrible, excruciatingly painful for us, the ones left behind. Me, I remain the sole custodian of his world now, the beautiful world he created and invited me into. So, it's lonely. Particularly to sit and write here in this room without him being always just a few feet away, always accessible.
But having known him and known his love, I know he'd want me to celebrate his life. Hence, http://rangareza.blogspot.in/ is born, my second blog, one dedicated to his memory. It's a blog to absorb and adore all the ephemeral beauties of life, to all those who've loved and lost our person(s) to the World Beyond. We haven't really lost them. They live on within us.
Showing posts with label Parents. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Parents. Show all posts
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Un Momento
There's a vaguely-coloured butterfly air-skipping out in the verendah in the sopoforic heat.
My Mum finds a pair of binoculars and peers at me from across the room. I love her when she's off-centre.
My father's TV's on and comments blare about Prime Minister Manmohan Singh's body language at a recent press conference. My father watches blissfully, his own commentary running in his mind which he will soon disclose to me. I can always count on him to update me when am not in the mood for the newspaper.
There are friends on my phone, friends in my email, friends loving, liking, friends I don't need right away but who comfort by simply existing. Nusaa, hello :)
Right now, I'm checking out Jamie Woon on youtube. I say 'Night Air' is my song, dark and delicate but you know what? Daytime isn't so bad.
My Mum finds a pair of binoculars and peers at me from across the room. I love her when she's off-centre.
My father's TV's on and comments blare about Prime Minister Manmohan Singh's body language at a recent press conference. My father watches blissfully, his own commentary running in his mind which he will soon disclose to me. I can always count on him to update me when am not in the mood for the newspaper.
There are friends on my phone, friends in my email, friends loving, liking, friends I don't need right away but who comfort by simply existing. Nusaa, hello :)
Right now, I'm checking out Jamie Woon on youtube. I say 'Night Air' is my song, dark and delicate but you know what? Daytime isn't so bad.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
That's what they call serendipity
I normally give my car to the valet guy to park at the gym but it was night and it was raining and I didn't see him so I parked it myself. After finishing my workout, he offered to bring it around to the front of the gym but I declined because in truth, I didn't have any money to tip him. So running off sheepishly, I got into my car on the other side of the road and slowly, cautiously began reversing into that chaotic street with whatever vision I could possess inside a rain splattered car on a dark street with blitzing lights.
For some reason I looked to my right and spotted a small, white-clad man with spectacles and a much-cuter-than-but-a-lot-like Woody Allen face. I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe it!
It was my maths tuition teacher from twelfth standard. The only maths tuition teacher I had who counted. For those of you who don't know, especially in Chennai, all kids are expected to go to tuition classes in the all important tenth and twelfth public exam years, irrespective of their capabilities. It's a rite of passage. The top students go to learn exam skills (which questions are bound to come in the paper and other tricks) and the others go to get what the school which moves at such a fast pace can't give them. My maths teacher, an endearing, limerick-making soul did try. But I was beyond help. I was really good but some irrational fear kept me back in only this subject. It was weird that something I really loved didn't love me back. Especially when it was a thing, not a person.
So this maths teacher was the one who transformed a paranoid, maths-loving but morbidly maths-phobic person into a smiling, peaceful 87% scoring, peace-with-demons-making school graduate. The one who made studying so easy with the help of practice papers. The adorable 90 + teacher who walked and walked and walked all around my part of town, tuition to tuition just because he didn't want to "stay at home watching TV". The one whose number I had lost, whom I feared had been long gone and whom I never really got to thank properly.
Now this may not be really relevant this but my father's a bit older. Living with him has endowed me with a fondness, a soft corner for older gentlemen beyond a particular age in the sense that I feel protective about them. I'm not really the type who feels children need fighting for. They do but they have enough people battling for the preservation of their innocence. My heart goes out to the older men and women, mostly men (because women are quite strong in this sense) who don't really have the energy that they used to have and who have to face a faster, glitzier world that wants to drop everything and move on.
So, meeting my teacher. I wanted to tell him so much. Thank him for helping me through a difficult period? Thank him for bringing sweetness and goodness into my life? Thank him for being a great teacher? But the words didn't really come out right. They overflowed and he nodded, he remembered me only after a while but he did. He asked about my former classmate and friend who had introduced me to him. He asked about my parents. Our conversation was less than sparkling and soul-searching but it was essential. It was special. God gave me my chance at gratitude and at filling the small hole in my heart that was incomplete. Nothing much was said but so much was expressed. I held his hand with both of mine and simply repeated "I'm so happy to see you"
For some reason I looked to my right and spotted a small, white-clad man with spectacles and a much-cuter-than-but-a-lot-like Woody Allen face. I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe it!
It was my maths tuition teacher from twelfth standard. The only maths tuition teacher I had who counted. For those of you who don't know, especially in Chennai, all kids are expected to go to tuition classes in the all important tenth and twelfth public exam years, irrespective of their capabilities. It's a rite of passage. The top students go to learn exam skills (which questions are bound to come in the paper and other tricks) and the others go to get what the school which moves at such a fast pace can't give them. My maths teacher, an endearing, limerick-making soul did try. But I was beyond help. I was really good but some irrational fear kept me back in only this subject. It was weird that something I really loved didn't love me back. Especially when it was a thing, not a person.
So this maths teacher was the one who transformed a paranoid, maths-loving but morbidly maths-phobic person into a smiling, peaceful 87% scoring, peace-with-demons-making school graduate. The one who made studying so easy with the help of practice papers. The adorable 90 + teacher who walked and walked and walked all around my part of town, tuition to tuition just because he didn't want to "stay at home watching TV". The one whose number I had lost, whom I feared had been long gone and whom I never really got to thank properly.
Now this may not be really relevant this but my father's a bit older. Living with him has endowed me with a fondness, a soft corner for older gentlemen beyond a particular age in the sense that I feel protective about them. I'm not really the type who feels children need fighting for. They do but they have enough people battling for the preservation of their innocence. My heart goes out to the older men and women, mostly men (because women are quite strong in this sense) who don't really have the energy that they used to have and who have to face a faster, glitzier world that wants to drop everything and move on.
So, meeting my teacher. I wanted to tell him so much. Thank him for helping me through a difficult period? Thank him for bringing sweetness and goodness into my life? Thank him for being a great teacher? But the words didn't really come out right. They overflowed and he nodded, he remembered me only after a while but he did. He asked about my former classmate and friend who had introduced me to him. He asked about my parents. Our conversation was less than sparkling and soul-searching but it was essential. It was special. God gave me my chance at gratitude and at filling the small hole in my heart that was incomplete. Nothing much was said but so much was expressed. I held his hand with both of mine and simply repeated "I'm so happy to see you"
Monday, March 15, 2010
Those other three words
It's really easy to love, trust me. Easy to say it also (well, most times). But to like someone? To actually genuinely like them? Not so easy and not so common.
A very good friend of mine I'll call MC (one of the select few people I really like) and I were talking about this phenomenon. That led me to think about the differences between love and liking.
I'm a person who's all about love, by the way. I send forth hugs and love through text messages, emails and in person. Friends, family, teachers and family of friends. Love comes easy, thanks to my inheritance of loving parents and a very demonstrative mother who shares love and kindness to all. I'm not as generous as her, being an inhabitant of a (porous) bubble. But I get it when people say "love makes the world go around".
I also get it when people say "love is blind". Because it is. That's when you ignore the flaws, you glorify the specks of brilliance. And when a cloud shows up, you get mad. You feel cheated.
But when you like someone, you know the flaws. You appreciate the talents, the charm and the goodness, but in a detached, objective way. There's no gush of love and no rush of sentiment. This person's good and you want to get to know them better, want them in your life.
When I mean love, I mean love in all its forms-affection for a newfound friend that ebbs and flows, a crush, a romantic relationship...any relationship.
Like begins to coexist with love. But like can't fluctuate. Like is steady, anchoring. Like is the solid cake base of the chocolate souffle. Love is immediate but like grows. It doesn't bubble up but it builds. Love's the flamboyant one while like is quieter, deeper and creeps up on you when you least expect it.
And that's the stuff great friendship is made of. Here's to you, MC.
A very good friend of mine I'll call MC (one of the select few people I really like) and I were talking about this phenomenon. That led me to think about the differences between love and liking.
I'm a person who's all about love, by the way. I send forth hugs and love through text messages, emails and in person. Friends, family, teachers and family of friends. Love comes easy, thanks to my inheritance of loving parents and a very demonstrative mother who shares love and kindness to all. I'm not as generous as her, being an inhabitant of a (porous) bubble. But I get it when people say "love makes the world go around".
I also get it when people say "love is blind". Because it is. That's when you ignore the flaws, you glorify the specks of brilliance. And when a cloud shows up, you get mad. You feel cheated.
But when you like someone, you know the flaws. You appreciate the talents, the charm and the goodness, but in a detached, objective way. There's no gush of love and no rush of sentiment. This person's good and you want to get to know them better, want them in your life.
When I mean love, I mean love in all its forms-affection for a newfound friend that ebbs and flows, a crush, a romantic relationship...any relationship.
Like begins to coexist with love. But like can't fluctuate. Like is steady, anchoring. Like is the solid cake base of the chocolate souffle. Love is immediate but like grows. It doesn't bubble up but it builds. Love's the flamboyant one while like is quieter, deeper and creeps up on you when you least expect it.
And that's the stuff great friendship is made of. Here's to you, MC.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Auditory fixations
I have a genetically acquired syndrome.
It is a problem. It really is.
As you are well aware by now, I have an obsession for music. Thanks to Trilok Gurtu who declares that he feels nothing for music as it is not something you can love or enjoy. It is so much within and yet all-encompassing that it surpasses words.
Okay, but this is not the problem.
My computer is in a corner of my father's room. My eardrums are throbbing right now because Benny Goodman's 'Sing sing sing' is blasting at full volume on youtube. The tiles on the floor are going to crack because my foot just cannot stay still. And across the room, neither can my father's.
The obsession, the need, the desperation to be surrounded by music at all times and of all types is really not the issue. The need to share it is.
My mother, alas, is not very musical. She gave up on the flute after one lesson. Don't get me wrong, she likes to sing and likes a choice few songs based on their melody or danceable quality alone. But she does not go crazy. She prefers the music to be turned down low so that conversation is feasible.
But for my father and me, the music IS the conversation. We're silent but it's as if Gene Krupa's frenetic drumming is communicating all that we need to say to the world. As loudly as we can.
My mum gets up and walks out of the room. But we want her to stay. We want her to listen. We like a witness, someone to fall in love with the our music so that we can discover it through their eyes and fall in love with it all over again. Someone to listen. Because we're saying so much. Through Benny Goodman, Caterina Valente, Xavier Cugat, Harry Belafonte, Lata Mangeshkar, Mohammed Rafi, Rosemary Clooney (my father's words). Through A.R Rahman, Gregorian chants, Bach, U2, Alizee, Cheb Khaled, Juanes, Paolo Nutini (my words). And though I enjoy his world as well, he does not really relate to mine. But doesn't complain about the iTunes so I search for Caterina Valente and Los Paraguayos and Cole Porter on youtube to make up for it. Not that I mind. I'm starting to like big band stuff. Or whatever it's called. It's just too much fun to name.
Of course, it doesn't help in finishing my assignments very much. iTunes, you are to blame if I don't finish my Cold War analysis due tomorrow.
Or maybe not. It's all hereditary.
Friday, December 26, 2008
I Got Therapy
So, I survived.
It was a fabulous Christmas, most unChristmasy in terms of no cake, no tree, no presents (sniff!) but it was a family time. And friends are family.
Christmas eve night: Me in my Chick Magnet T shirt, wrapped up under the quilt, laughing my head off at Ryan and Colin in 'Whose Line is it Anyway?'. Show's over and I prepare to spend my Christmas night glamorously NOT.
K messages and we decide to attend Midnight Mass for the first time in my life. It's been AN AGE since K and I met. After a sudden bout of hysterics for no reason- or maybe too many reasons. (Not been feeling so top notch of late. Guess it all came crashing out. Must vent more and not keep things so compressed) , we finally left. It was late but we got to listen to K's favourite carol ('Mary's boy child') and my second favourite ('Jingle bell rock'. 'Oh come all ye faithful''s my absolute favourite). Then we headed to Barista where I got sick and tried to avoid looking at them while they shared some gooey chocolate cake. Is it possible to be physicaly sick and emotionally rejuvenated at the same time?
Christmas Day! Woke up and put 'I want to break free' on full blast..ah, there's nothing like having Freddie Mercury's voice bring in the celebration. I absorbed the therapy and then dressed up for a girl's day out.
Ah, it was so nice. The four of us had a giggle-fest (seriously. I'd forgotten I was capable of those) and hogged some sandwiches (and i had a choco tart. GUILTY AS CHARGED!But it's CHRISTMAS!) and then we traipsed around till my fuel tank pointed to empty and then we ran home to check a few priceless scenes of OUR movie ('Kaho Na Pyaar Hai'. This cinematic gem redefined our 11 year old lives and gave us all our first crush in the form of Hrithik Roshan). Then we wandered over to Numbi Jim's house and did some more nonsense. I think these three mad girls contribute to my Peter Pan behaviour, seeing as how they're pretty much the same.
Well, so I'm feeling much much better now. Socialising helps... and so does church!
It was a fabulous Christmas, most unChristmasy in terms of no cake, no tree, no presents (sniff!) but it was a family time. And friends are family.
Christmas eve night: Me in my Chick Magnet T shirt, wrapped up under the quilt, laughing my head off at Ryan and Colin in 'Whose Line is it Anyway?'. Show's over and I prepare to spend my Christmas night glamorously NOT.
K messages and we decide to attend Midnight Mass for the first time in my life. It's been AN AGE since K and I met. After a sudden bout of hysterics for no reason- or maybe too many reasons. (Not been feeling so top notch of late. Guess it all came crashing out. Must vent more and not keep things so compressed) , we finally left. It was late but we got to listen to K's favourite carol ('Mary's boy child') and my second favourite ('Jingle bell rock'. 'Oh come all ye faithful''s my absolute favourite). Then we headed to Barista where I got sick and tried to avoid looking at them while they shared some gooey chocolate cake. Is it possible to be physicaly sick and emotionally rejuvenated at the same time?
Christmas Day! Woke up and put 'I want to break free' on full blast..ah, there's nothing like having Freddie Mercury's voice bring in the celebration. I absorbed the therapy and then dressed up for a girl's day out.
Ah, it was so nice. The four of us had a giggle-fest (seriously. I'd forgotten I was capable of those) and hogged some sandwiches (and i had a choco tart. GUILTY AS CHARGED!But it's CHRISTMAS!) and then we traipsed around till my fuel tank pointed to empty and then we ran home to check a few priceless scenes of OUR movie ('Kaho Na Pyaar Hai'. This cinematic gem redefined our 11 year old lives and gave us all our first crush in the form of Hrithik Roshan). Then we wandered over to Numbi Jim's house and did some more nonsense. I think these three mad girls contribute to my Peter Pan behaviour, seeing as how they're pretty much the same.
Well, so I'm feeling much much better now. Socialising helps... and so does church!
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Ah, l'amour!
Well, well, I'm in one of my lovey-dovey moods (read: the time when I'm not being a totally brattish boy who couldn't care less about eyebrow threading, is in the throes of an extremely satisfying assignment completion or lusting after pizza and popcorn). Being perennially single in a sea of couples (with and without the relationship counselling I tend to do) has its advantages and disadvantages.
The upside:
- I can go where I like, talk to whom I like, without it being a problem for anyone (er, except headquarters) I love all my guy friends too much to give that up.
- I save on tears.
- I don't have to dress up and fret about looking perfect. Okay, perhaps the fact that I'm single should make me NEED to dress up, but I'm just too lazy to care.
- I have done enough fighting with my best friend for a dozen relationships.
- I can have a million and hundred crushes and nobody has to know. And even if they do, it's all fine!
-Weirdness is something you celebrate alone. I think.
- I can be a boy.
- My parents are extreeeeeemely happy with my célébataire status. And I get to hang out with them most of the time.
The downside:
- You have to drop yourself home and so can't stay out that late (if you're a girl like I'm supposed to be). Ah, the luxury of having someone drive you around and fuss about protecting you. (Besides Mum. Now if she did that, I'd furiously declare my age and how I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Not)
- There's always a message waiting to be read on your phone. A call. An email. Some contact when you're in your people-hungry moods!
- Someone chose YOU because of the way you are and does not need you to change for any reason. Someone loves you not because you are born to them. Of course, there's friends for this. But they don't necessarily find you attractive, fun, comfortable, loving and want to be with you all the time. Hmmm.
- You get to fuss over someone and pour out all that love without scaring (when your friends and puppy get squirmy if you do the same. Sometimes)
The rest of the reasons have been eloquently conveyed in the following.
All I Want Is You - U2
You say you want diamonds on a ring of gold
You say you want your story to remain untold
But all the promises we made
From the cradle to the grave
When all I want is you
You say you'll give me a highway with no one on it
A treasure just to look upon it
All the riches in the night
You say you'll give me eyes in a world of blindness
A river in a time of dryness
A harbour in the tempest
But all the promises we make
From the cradle to the grave
When all I want is you
You say you want your love to work out right
To last with me through the night
You say you want diamonds on a ring of gold
Your story to remain untold
Your love not to grow cold
All the promises we break
From the cradle to the grave
When all I want is you You
All I want is...you
All I want is...you
All I want is...you
( I guess the fact that it is sung in Bono's passionate voice as it soars over The Edge's other-worldly riffs adds to the fact that it is probably the most beautiful song of love and longing that I've ever heard. I can listen to it over and over and over again and still not shake off the goosebumps on my skin.)
Desert Rose - Sting
The upside:
- I can go where I like, talk to whom I like, without it being a problem for anyone (er, except headquarters) I love all my guy friends too much to give that up.
- I save on tears.
- I don't have to dress up and fret about looking perfect. Okay, perhaps the fact that I'm single should make me NEED to dress up, but I'm just too lazy to care.
- I have done enough fighting with my best friend for a dozen relationships.
- I can have a million and hundred crushes and nobody has to know. And even if they do, it's all fine!
-Weirdness is something you celebrate alone. I think.
- I can be a boy.
- My parents are extreeeeeemely happy with my célébataire status. And I get to hang out with them most of the time.
The downside:
- You have to drop yourself home and so can't stay out that late (if you're a girl like I'm supposed to be). Ah, the luxury of having someone drive you around and fuss about protecting you. (Besides Mum. Now if she did that, I'd furiously declare my age and how I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Not)
- There's always a message waiting to be read on your phone. A call. An email. Some contact when you're in your people-hungry moods!
- Someone chose YOU because of the way you are and does not need you to change for any reason. Someone loves you not because you are born to them. Of course, there's friends for this. But they don't necessarily find you attractive, fun, comfortable, loving and want to be with you all the time. Hmmm.
- You get to fuss over someone and pour out all that love without scaring (when your friends and puppy get squirmy if you do the same. Sometimes)
The rest of the reasons have been eloquently conveyed in the following.
All I Want Is You - U2
You say you want diamonds on a ring of gold
You say you want your story to remain untold
But all the promises we made
From the cradle to the grave
When all I want is you
You say you'll give me a highway with no one on it
A treasure just to look upon it
All the riches in the night
You say you'll give me eyes in a world of blindness
A river in a time of dryness
A harbour in the tempest
But all the promises we make
From the cradle to the grave
When all I want is you
You say you want your love to work out right
To last with me through the night
You say you want diamonds on a ring of gold
Your story to remain untold
Your love not to grow cold
All the promises we break
From the cradle to the grave
When all I want is you You
All I want is...you
All I want is...you
All I want is...you
( I guess the fact that it is sung in Bono's passionate voice as it soars over The Edge's other-worldly riffs adds to the fact that it is probably the most beautiful song of love and longing that I've ever heard. I can listen to it over and over and over again and still not shake off the goosebumps on my skin.)
Desert Rose - Sting
I dream of rain
I dream of gardens in the desert sand
I wake in vain
I dream of love as time runs through my hand
Sweet desert rose
Each of her veils, a secret promise
This desert flower
No sweet perfume ever tortured me more than this
Sweet desert rose
This memory of Eden haunts us all
This desert flower
This rare perfume, is the sweet intoxication of the fall
( The delicate words woven into the intricate melody totally transports me into a desert oasis under a star studded sky. Okay, okay, I'm getting too soppy perhaps. But I just cannot resist Cheb Mami's enchanting vocals syncing with Sting's as these words of yearning for love flow so gracefully. Siiiiigh)
Abhi Nahin Aana - Sona
Abhi Nahin Aana
Mohe Thoda Marne De
Intezar Karne De
Abhi Nahin Aana Sajana
Bhejiyo Sandesha
Aap Nahin Aana
Thode Door Rahke
Mohe Tarsana
Abhi To Mein Chahun,
Sari Sari Raat Jagana
Abhi Nahi Anna Sajana
Ruk Ruk Aana
Dheere Dheere Chalna
Bhoolna Dagaria,
Raste Badalna
Nahi Abhi Mohe,
Garwa Nahi Hey Lagna
Abhi Na Jagao
Bane Raho Sapna....
(Okay, for those of you who don't know Hindi, for those of you who are not familiar with Indian traditions and perceptions of love and courtship, this one may be lost on you in translation. The song, beautifully sung by Sona, is about a woman telling her lover to delay his arrival. She wishes to nearly die in anticipation for him, to experience the torture of being separated from him. This song cannot be understood if you're not a romantic)
Chasing Cars - Snow Patrol
We'll do it all
Everything
On our own.
We don't need
Anything
Or anyone.
If I lay here,
If I just lay here ,
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?
I don't quite know
How to say
How I feel.
Those three words
Are said too much
They're not enough
If I lay here,
If I just lay here,
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?
Forget what we're told
Before we get too old
Show me a garden that's bursting into life.
Let's waste time
Chasing cars
Around our heads.
I need your grace
To remind me
To find my own...
All that I am
All that I ever was
Is here in your perfect eyes,
they're all I can see.
I don't know where
Confused about how as well
Just know that these things will never change for us at all.
If I lay here,
If I just lay here,
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?
( Need I say more?)
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Father and Baby Penguin
Mothers possess a natural instinct to hold or hover over their children, while fathers are relegated or relegate themselves to the background, confused about baby’s needs but more unconvinced of their capabilities to care. They surrender to the ‘superior’ parent.
On working on a poster for Father’s Day, I ruminated and scribbled down the endless possibilities of salutation to fatherhood. “The man whom you will always look up to no matter how tall you are” or “The person who taught you to be a man but to whom you’ll always be a baby” (Hallmark, hire me!) That is there, but in general, fathers are expected to be sought for intellectual and financial advice, but for the hugs and the whining-go to Mum!
Not always true. I’ll never forget the time when my 10th Board results were out. I’d done well but I hadn’t gotten the marks I deserved in Social Studies. I had been topping that subject the entire year and it was my favourite. I had worked hard and I knew I deserved much more. Of course, I told myself it was no big deal and I had to be mature about it. But I sank down on a chair beside my father while he was getting ready for work and it was on his shoulder that I lay my head, letting the tears spill. He may or may not have known that I was crying and neither would he have known what exactly for but he patted my head all the same. And with neither of us exchanging a word, all my disappointment melted away.
Recently, I have developed a keen interest in watching fathers from all walks of life interact with their children, particularly babies. The way they lean them across their shoulder or carry them on their chest catches me as one of the tenderest sights. Big men rendered vulnerable because of the small weight in their arms that is breathing into their shoulder, utterly dependent upon them.
The cutest thing that I saw recently was on the Pondicherry beach. The beach there is a narrow strip of sand between the pavement and the rocks. This father, dressed in formals was walking with his chubby toddler, fully clad in his pajamas. The little wanderer set forth on the sand, waddling like a midget penguin. The father hovered protectively overhead, encouraging the tiny steps. Whenever the toddler recognized he was about to fall, he stretched his short little arms out and placed them on the sand, attempting a rather perfect mountain pose. His father stepped in front of him and awaited the resurrection patiently. Our little man got back to his feet and resumed his march, Dad reveling in his offspring’s achievement as if it were his own.
Finally after about twenty minutes of trotting back and forth, the father picked up his little treasure and hoisted him up to the sky. And then they jogged a bit, the baby’s hands outstretched to the wind, together celebrating their glorious little world.
I’ll never know the name of the father or his little boy but I feel so privileged to have been witness to their tender moment. The boy will grow up; the father may not have as much energy to run after him. They might forget about their adventure on the beach. But I most definitely won’t.
On working on a poster for Father’s Day, I ruminated and scribbled down the endless possibilities of salutation to fatherhood. “The man whom you will always look up to no matter how tall you are” or “The person who taught you to be a man but to whom you’ll always be a baby” (Hallmark, hire me!) That is there, but in general, fathers are expected to be sought for intellectual and financial advice, but for the hugs and the whining-go to Mum!
Not always true. I’ll never forget the time when my 10th Board results were out. I’d done well but I hadn’t gotten the marks I deserved in Social Studies. I had been topping that subject the entire year and it was my favourite. I had worked hard and I knew I deserved much more. Of course, I told myself it was no big deal and I had to be mature about it. But I sank down on a chair beside my father while he was getting ready for work and it was on his shoulder that I lay my head, letting the tears spill. He may or may not have known that I was crying and neither would he have known what exactly for but he patted my head all the same. And with neither of us exchanging a word, all my disappointment melted away.
Recently, I have developed a keen interest in watching fathers from all walks of life interact with their children, particularly babies. The way they lean them across their shoulder or carry them on their chest catches me as one of the tenderest sights. Big men rendered vulnerable because of the small weight in their arms that is breathing into their shoulder, utterly dependent upon them.
The cutest thing that I saw recently was on the Pondicherry beach. The beach there is a narrow strip of sand between the pavement and the rocks. This father, dressed in formals was walking with his chubby toddler, fully clad in his pajamas. The little wanderer set forth on the sand, waddling like a midget penguin. The father hovered protectively overhead, encouraging the tiny steps. Whenever the toddler recognized he was about to fall, he stretched his short little arms out and placed them on the sand, attempting a rather perfect mountain pose. His father stepped in front of him and awaited the resurrection patiently. Our little man got back to his feet and resumed his march, Dad reveling in his offspring’s achievement as if it were his own.
Finally after about twenty minutes of trotting back and forth, the father picked up his little treasure and hoisted him up to the sky. And then they jogged a bit, the baby’s hands outstretched to the wind, together celebrating their glorious little world.
I’ll never know the name of the father or his little boy but I feel so privileged to have been witness to their tender moment. The boy will grow up; the father may not have as much energy to run after him. They might forget about their adventure on the beach. But I most definitely won’t.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Culturally challenged
Yes, I'm culturally challenged.
No, it's not that I have no respect or understanding or interest in culture of any kind. It's just that I have an affinity for ALL of them!
Wait let me explain...
My paternal side of the family is Telugu, with origins way back in Rajasthan...
My maternal side is Malayali but with settlements all over the North of India...
My cousins are half-Bengali and half-Himachali each (with the confusing mix of Malayali blood and Delhiite upbringing thrown in)...
My language of thought and most speech is the colonial inheritance, English (with a medley of Tamil, Hindi, slang and whatever language is closest pulled in)...
My poetry! The language of my heart is Spanish, for its poetry in every phrase, in every word and its capability of expressing my soul (though I barely speak it anymore)...
My music! Music speaks to me most strikingly through Arabic-the whispers of the desert, the wind in the qanun and the hypnotic beat of the derbouka...
My movies! Bollywood and the Hindi dialogues, songs and dances of its films envelop me in their profusion of warmth and colour...
My food! Has to be spicy and colourful and vibrant and over the top. I cannot live without some dose of Andhra food...
My school! Sanskrit was my second language. My reverence for the holy language was a bit dented after 5 years of non-understanding texts that advised me to not hang necklaces around a snake (No offence meant)
My college! French was always a language I appreciated for its exquisite accent (which I practised much on my friends, much to their er..concern for my sanity) and also because it so resembled Spanish.
You would wonder how I survived these many years without tripping over my own tongue. Linguistically, culturally, emotionally... I have no clue where I stand.
What is my mother tongue? (er, English)
What are you? (er, human)
Where are you from? (er,Mommy?)
Oh my, you don't speak Telugu, what a shame. You don't speak Malayalam either? Tsk, tsk.
No I cannot feel pride welling up if I see coconut trees and backwaters. Sure, it's pretty but it isn't mine.
I love my 'mudu-pappu' and mango dal like crazy but I cannot follow a word of the Telugu language and as much as I try to feel guilty about it, I really don't.
And I just don't have a soul to practise Spanish with. It's not much fun being pointed at while you speak to yourself in a 'foreign' language.
And my spoken Hindi shows no improvement despite my Bollywood fixation and the fact that it was my general elective this semester!
So where do I fit in? Where is that home, the place I belong? Where everyone goes on holiday and comes back with unified stories of family, tradition while I take a pinch of nearly everything. I want to understand jokes in Malayalam slang and want to understand the lines to inane Chiranjeevi songs (Big Boss!!!).
I want to speak perfect Hindi and not just ‘hahn, hahn’. I want something to call my OWN. And it’s too late to invent a language. (already did that in Std I…until concerns for my development made me stop)
Maybe that’s why I created Estarra. Hmmm. :)
No, it's not that I have no respect or understanding or interest in culture of any kind. It's just that I have an affinity for ALL of them!
Wait let me explain...
My paternal side of the family is Telugu, with origins way back in Rajasthan...
My maternal side is Malayali but with settlements all over the North of India...
My cousins are half-Bengali and half-Himachali each (with the confusing mix of Malayali blood and Delhiite upbringing thrown in)...
My language of thought and most speech is the colonial inheritance, English (with a medley of Tamil, Hindi, slang and whatever language is closest pulled in)...
My poetry! The language of my heart is Spanish, for its poetry in every phrase, in every word and its capability of expressing my soul (though I barely speak it anymore)...
My music! Music speaks to me most strikingly through Arabic-the whispers of the desert, the wind in the qanun and the hypnotic beat of the derbouka...
My movies! Bollywood and the Hindi dialogues, songs and dances of its films envelop me in their profusion of warmth and colour...
My food! Has to be spicy and colourful and vibrant and over the top. I cannot live without some dose of Andhra food...
My school! Sanskrit was my second language. My reverence for the holy language was a bit dented after 5 years of non-understanding texts that advised me to not hang necklaces around a snake (No offence meant)
My college! French was always a language I appreciated for its exquisite accent (which I practised much on my friends, much to their er..concern for my sanity) and also because it so resembled Spanish.
You would wonder how I survived these many years without tripping over my own tongue. Linguistically, culturally, emotionally... I have no clue where I stand.
What is my mother tongue? (er, English)
What are you? (er, human)
Where are you from? (er,Mommy?)
Oh my, you don't speak Telugu, what a shame. You don't speak Malayalam either? Tsk, tsk.
No I cannot feel pride welling up if I see coconut trees and backwaters. Sure, it's pretty but it isn't mine.
I love my 'mudu-pappu' and mango dal like crazy but I cannot follow a word of the Telugu language and as much as I try to feel guilty about it, I really don't.
And I just don't have a soul to practise Spanish with. It's not much fun being pointed at while you speak to yourself in a 'foreign' language.
And my spoken Hindi shows no improvement despite my Bollywood fixation and the fact that it was my general elective this semester!
So where do I fit in? Where is that home, the place I belong? Where everyone goes on holiday and comes back with unified stories of family, tradition while I take a pinch of nearly everything. I want to understand jokes in Malayalam slang and want to understand the lines to inane Chiranjeevi songs (Big Boss!!!).
I want to speak perfect Hindi and not just ‘hahn, hahn’. I want something to call my OWN. And it’s too late to invent a language. (already did that in Std I…until concerns for my development made me stop)
Maybe that’s why I created Estarra. Hmmm. :)
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Insomniac
I need help.
I really do.
I have this tendency to waltz about the entire day, declining social invitations explaining that I am extremely sleep-deprived, whining about fatigue and refusing to budge, prone in front of the television set, immune to grumblings from the mother. Soon enough, I fall asleep by 20:45hrs....only to arise from the dead at the stroke of midnight.
"GO BACK TO BED!!!" yells the mother, also awake due to my midnightly crashing about in the dark.I stumble along the way, gathering varied reading and listening material that could possibly ease my soul back into slumber.
Sitting on the bathroom stool, I behold my copy of the Funk and Wagnall's Encyclopaedia( Aardvark to Antartica), I envision myself as a nocturnal genius-the knower of all there is to know. I smile to myself as I imagine the expansion of my mind as I explain Zen Buddhism and the migration of flamingos in the same breath to a rapt audience.
"Whiiiiiiiiiiinnnne" the only audience available here appears to be a troop of mosquitoes aiming for a landing in that un-scratchable area between my toes. I slam Funk and Wagnall's shut and storm out.
I tiptoe this time back into my room and fish out my walkman. Music, aahh, the saviour of my soul. Who cared about aardvarks when one could avail of the gentle melodies of Beethoven's Moonlight sonata? I could feel the sleep setting in already...Headphones on my ears, I crawl into bed...
...only to sit up bolt upright to the furious chord progressions of Rammstein hammering out 'Links 2,3,4'. How musical preferences vary according to the times of the day...!
I sigh and put away my walkman as I get out of bed. Perhaps it is food that I need...I saunter out into the stillness of the drawing room and towards the kitchen.
I find the light already on...
I help my father with the snacks and we head to the tv set. We watch inane jokes on a late night comedy show and crunch on soggy potato chips.
I needn't worry really. It's hereditary after all. :)
I really do.
I have this tendency to waltz about the entire day, declining social invitations explaining that I am extremely sleep-deprived, whining about fatigue and refusing to budge, prone in front of the television set, immune to grumblings from the mother. Soon enough, I fall asleep by 20:45hrs....only to arise from the dead at the stroke of midnight.
"GO BACK TO BED!!!" yells the mother, also awake due to my midnightly crashing about in the dark.I stumble along the way, gathering varied reading and listening material that could possibly ease my soul back into slumber.
Sitting on the bathroom stool, I behold my copy of the Funk and Wagnall's Encyclopaedia( Aardvark to Antartica), I envision myself as a nocturnal genius-the knower of all there is to know. I smile to myself as I imagine the expansion of my mind as I explain Zen Buddhism and the migration of flamingos in the same breath to a rapt audience.
"Whiiiiiiiiiiinnnne" the only audience available here appears to be a troop of mosquitoes aiming for a landing in that un-scratchable area between my toes. I slam Funk and Wagnall's shut and storm out.
I tiptoe this time back into my room and fish out my walkman. Music, aahh, the saviour of my soul. Who cared about aardvarks when one could avail of the gentle melodies of Beethoven's Moonlight sonata? I could feel the sleep setting in already...Headphones on my ears, I crawl into bed...
...only to sit up bolt upright to the furious chord progressions of Rammstein hammering out 'Links 2,3,4'. How musical preferences vary according to the times of the day...!
I sigh and put away my walkman as I get out of bed. Perhaps it is food that I need...I saunter out into the stillness of the drawing room and towards the kitchen.
I find the light already on...
I help my father with the snacks and we head to the tv set. We watch inane jokes on a late night comedy show and crunch on soggy potato chips.
I needn't worry really. It's hereditary after all. :)
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