faces that tell

Its not that I've never felt it before. Its perhaps that I've never thought about it before. Or perhaps I've thought about it before but not really sat down and pondered about it. Haven't you felt that there are faces that tell a story by themselves? Stories maybe with no titles, beginning middle and end, no climax or an anti-climax, but still stories?

I've always seen him near the serving table. A dirty off-red apron around him, his eyes gently looking around to see what each person who walks by the table has loaded on to a plate. sometimes, when I stop by for an extra helping of something, or when I go back to get it, I see his face light up, I see his eagerness to serve, and I wish my tummy would be better equipped to feel hungry all over gain, just to see him smile. His smile is never different from the ones my ammumma gives me when I tell her that the aviyal that she has made for me is remarkably wonderful, or when I just simply wipe my plate clean, and burp unapologetically, after having enjoyed a full meal. Its then that stories seem to swim above their heads. I know that these people enjoy cooking, but more than just the act of cooking, they love seeing people enjoy it.It is appreciation for them when they see wiped clean plates, and hear burps. I wonder at why burps are so looked down upon, that's perhaps your tummy telling you that it is happy with what you have fed it today. And I think you have the right to hear it.

There are faces that tell you what they are. I had a teacher who could have been nothing but a very kind and lovely teacher, one look at her would convince you of the same. There are painters who just look like painters, people who look like their names- Renukas you know will just be Renukas, Varuns who look like Varuns, Georges who could have not been anything else but George, women who have motherhood written on their faces, shopkeepers who you know will give sweets free to children...how many such faces, how many more stories...

I wonder if you have ever felt this way. I wonder what story my face tells...

happy b'day :)

You may call it a coincidence, I simply smile in glee :)


The two men in my life celebrate their birthdays together, tomorrow on the 21st of december.

Acha, thank you for being the strong solid rock that you have always been. will always be proud of being your daughter.
Manu, for making life so beautiful and enchanting, always and forever...

Love you both, for being special in more ways than one :)

Of endings and storytellings

I have always loved listening to stories. When I was a small child, I used to have two rounds of story telling everyday. One by my muthassan and the other, by achan. Muthassan always slept early, and so the first story telling or rather, listening as it was the case with me, was always with muthassan.




My muthassan was never like other grandparents. He wasn't the stay at home person. My muthassan was always busy, travelling throughout the country, staying at home only for a couple of days at a stretch every month, and so for me, every minute with him was precious. Everyone was scared of my muthassan. He had a hot temper, and he lost it quite frequently. I confess I was scared too, but then I was a small child, and small children always manage to escape the wrath....of anyone.




Muthassan always told me tales from the puranas-The Mahabharata, Ramayana, Jataka tales, the Panchatantra...all the stories that has ever been published in the Amar Chitra Katha Series and much more. My muthassan always had the knack of actually telling stories and not just narate them. Through his stories, I saw Ravana with his 10 heads and twenty arms, I saw the sudarshana chakra of Sree Krishna, I saw visions of a little squirrel rolling on the sand, helping Lord Rama build the Rama Sethu...I would listen enchanted, as muthassan reeled off stories, day after day, one after the other. I still wonder how Ravan managed when he got a cold. Wouldnt all his 10 heads sneeze at the same time? I wish I had lived at the time of Birbal and Tansen, of Shivaji and of Hanuman, I wish I could see Lord Ganesa eat at a feast...coz muthassan always spoke of these people as real people, people you and I might have known, people who would have been interesting to talk to and meet up with.




I've told you that my muthassan wasnt always at home. So sometimes, he had to leave a story unfinished,beacuse he had to travel the next day, and wasnt there at home to complete the story...I didnt like this much. It meant I would have to wait days, probably weeks to listen to the rest of the story. In the meanwhile,I would conjure up endings on my own. I would make Rama and Ravana fight inside my head. I would end stories my way, and make new tales out of old ones. I would continue this everyday making up different endings everyday, till muthassan was back to complete his story with the real ending....




I miss having stories told to me. I miss making up endings to stories. I miss my muthassan...as i told you, he was the best muthassan ever...

flutter-byes :)

For a dull drab day that this was turning out to be, butterflies has done the trick...thanks a lot sashu for giving me this award :)

there are many tags that i need to follow, many more that i need to write and lots more i need to read...but before i do that i know i need to honour this..the second award that i've recieved after having stepped into the blogosphere :)

So here are the rules of the tag:

1. Put the logo on your blog.
2. Add a link to the person who awarded it to you.
3. Link the bloggers whom you wanted to share this award to.

i'd like to award the butterfly award to :
1. manu: The one who makes my heart beat fast and slow at the same time.

2. sujichettan: for being an unfailing reader of all that i've written.

3. zeinab: for being a very open and honest critic of my writing. I need to thank him, for all the little mistakes that i've stoped making.

4. poornima: a blog that i stumbled on to recently, and couldn't stop reading since reading since.

5. mind bedouin: for being more than a friend and also for finally putting up her writings on her blog. and also for the honest comments she gives me.

6. amu: for being special. in more ways than one

so...

“So, does your wife know you are here?”
She asked him, ruffling his hair as he lay with his head on her chest.
“No.”
“Would she ever know?” She ran her fingers across his bare back and wiped a few sweat beads away.
“No.” He wrapped his arms around her more closely, and buried his head onto her bosom.
“What if she does?”
“She won’t.”
“Hmmmm!”
“You are not convinced.” He lifted his head from her breasts.
“If you are convinced so am I. It’s just that, if she finds out; it’ll be bad for you. But nothing for me.”
“It won’t affect you at all?” he was looking at her face as she said it. She seemed to believe what she was saying.
“No.” She said grinning.
“Why?” He contemplated sitting up. But then her body was too warm to leave. He sank down again, on her side, one arm draped around her belly.
“Coz you came to me. I never called you to come to me. I was never after you.” She looked at him right in the eye.
“And does that make a difference?” He didn't understand it. He did. But then he didn't.
“Amir!”
“Ok. I get it. But I can always say that you enticed me.” He thought that was smart enough.
“Ha! You would never say that.” She laughed
“I wouldn’t? What makes you think so?” He removed his arm from around her tummy.
“Coz I know you.” She stated
“Hmmmmm...” he sank into her again. “Do you?”
“Yes.” He wondered how she could be so sure about everything. Something that his wife never was.
“What do you know about me?”
“I know enough.” She said winking at him. Gently running her long fingers through his hairy chest.
“That’s not an answer.” Her fingers were driving him mad. He caught it and bit into her index finger.
She laughed.
“I know that you do not expect me to say ‘I love you’ to you. And I know that you don’t want to say that to me either. That’s all that you need isn’t it?”

He made love to her till morning. She gave him what he wanted till he left for his home.

wishing

I go to sleep everyday hoping I'd be woken up by your knocking on the door. I wake up everyday and open the door, hoping you'd be there, waiting for me to come out. I keep my room neat everyday, so that when you come, you would want to stay and never leave. I put kajal everyday, hoping you'd be there beside me, whispering how much you like my kohil lined eyes. I wait for you to get a holiday, hoping you'd come down to see me. I cry to you that I miss you, hoping one day, you surely will come to kiss my tears away. I wish everyday would be my birthday, so that you'll have a reason to surprise me by coming to me. I drape my bed with blue bedsheets, knowing that you love blue, and hoping one day, you'd wake up with me on them. i ask you come to me, you find different answers all the time...



I tell you that I miss you....don't you miss me too?

Twenty Rupees

I still don’t know why we decided to take that walk.


It wasn’t rainy. It wasn’t winter. There is no winter here anyway. It wasn’t the calm, cold October month. It was hot, sultry and sweaty. Summer making its obvious presence felt on our armpits, and our foreheads, where little beads of perspiration pondered sliding down our noses.


Am not sure if we talked that day. I remember sly glances and colour on cheeks. Yellow dupatta and a bright green slawar kameez, a white tee and Bata chappals. But nothing of conversations. Funny how a few days ago when friendship was the term that had defined our relationship, words would never stop, tumbling over each other in their rush.


But now friendship was lost. And in the first walk together to nowhere, there was something else. And we were smiling all the while.


It was she who wanted the watermelon. I watched her as she ate. It was as if even watermelons loved her. Or perhaps I was too lost to really think of the careless way in which she bit into the pinkness of the melon.


Two brown seeds were sticking to somewhere between the tiny crook where the lip starts and what you would perhaps refer to as the chin. I looked at them (and her). My hand rose hesitantly, fingers wanting to brush the seeds off, wondering how it would be to feel her skin.

My hand must have just begun the sojourn to her face.


“20 roopa chetta” (that will be 20 Rs.)


She brushed the seeds away herself. My hands found two ten rupee notes in my pocket.

Rain Clouds

You told me rains were tears of the clouds. You told me you wore bangles because you liked to listen to them talk to each other. You told me that you loved the way the beach sand sticks on your soles. You told me you loved to make patterns in the sand. You said nothing beat coffee. You always insisted on drawing a smiley face with the ketchup bottle on your plate after you were done. You liked waving at trains. You loved lying on your back and watching the clouds till the night swallowed the sun, and you could see them no more.

I walked with you in the rain, because I knew you put wet towels on my forehead the next day, if I fell sick. I bought you bangles, smiling at the way you listened to them talk. We walked on the beach together, letting the wet sand tickle our toes. I took pictures of all that you drew on the sand, and pinned them up on my wall. I insisted on lying on my back with you watching the clouds, while I studied the way your lips moved while you spun stories about clouds.

I knew you hated early mornings, preferred white roses to the red ones, I knew you washed your hair with coconut oil and amla, that liked your coffee with more milk and less sugar, I knew the way you laughed, gasping for breath, and clutching at your sides. I have seen you cry, the way your lips quivered and the tears always came out of your left eye first. I knew the way your hair always came undone, strands that kept falling into your eyes. I knew the way you held my hands and squealed when you were excited. I knew the way there would always be silences between us, where you’d be near, yet so far, and I waited for you to come back to me. I knew the shops you went to, the food you ate, the worst coffee you’d ever had, the worst fear of yours, your biggest dream to sail on a yacht alone, with Orhan Pamuk and Marquez for company. I knew the books you loved, the way you could never like Howard Roark, I knew the passwords to your e-mail accounts, the combinations to your number lock, I knew how hard you tried to learn to whistle...

I thought I knew everything about you. I thought we were perfect.

But I never knew that you never loved me. Until you left.

The animatedness of inanimation

I guess life has been opened and closed simultaneously for me. There are new things everyday and also the old things. There is nothing happening on some days, while a lot, though nothing particularly significant (usually) that happens.

It is nice to think about someone all the time, miss him,his touch, his smile, but also miss a lot of inanimate animate things like a missed call, a message, a scrap. Sometimes I think it’s so worthless to be in this state that I am in right now. This over invasion of inanimate things in my life. But then, there is no other animation that happens. Then again, if not for these inanimations, I am at a loss as to where and what I’d be doing.

It seems perfectly natural to miss one person constantly, think about what he would be doing, which side of the bed he sleeps on, how much tooth paste he puts on his tooth brush, the amount of stubble he might be growing now. It also seems incredulous that I spend my time on this. But again, to come back to what I was saying, it all seems so natural.

If I’d chose to do something other than the ones that I’ve mentioned prior, it shocks me that there would be nothing. True, I might write, I might paint, but there is this constant thought process going on somewhere, almost involuntarily about just one person.

Sometimes I think obsession is bad. But then again, it’s not so bad at all. Is it?

I enjoy my state of mind usually, and I just don’t mean the “good” state of mind. I also mean the not so good, and the worse. But what happens is that the thoughts which i enjoy in these frames of mind differ. The whole missing part which seemed so romantic a short while ago seems all so wrong and so melodramatic and oppressive. And i get into animated discussions with myself. This however ends in a lot of inanimation.

So there, life- and the animatedness of inanimation.

Being there. final part

"Ah! you are awake. I was just coming to wake you up. You wont ever believe what I've done now." Sai came into the room just as Nidhi was stretching herself and struggling to keep her eyes open, in spite of the mid day sunlight.

He stood there with such a wide grin and an unbeatable look of accomplishment that she had to laugh.

"You are laughing? Did I miss something? I didn't say anything funny did I?"

"You made breakfast." she said trying to keep a straight face and acting overwhelmed.

" how did you guess? I changed my shirt. I haven't dribbled anything on my pants...how did you guess?" He asked baffled.

"Wifey instincts!!" she said smugly.

He stuck his tongue out at her. "Fine. Someday, even I'll discover something like husbandly instincts and then you'll see."

"hee hee....am eagerly awaiting the day"

"Well anyway. I made dosa. I couldn't figure out how to make sambar or chutney, so you'll have to do with ketchup. And don't make that face. Be grateful I dint kick you out from the bed to make breakfast. Do you even know the time woman? its nearly lunch time. No actually its brunch time-11.30. and...."

"Get the breakfast Sai...am hungry...and am not sure I cant resist dosa and ketchup....." she said, smiling an evil smile.

Not catching the sarcasm, his face brightened and he walked out of the room.

he came in with 2 plates of what looked like bits of dirt, painfully arranged in the form of a circle, and a Maggi ketchup bottle balanced on one of the plates.

"there you go. My best creation ever. They are slightly...erm...overdone...but they are tasty. I tried them." he looked at her sideways.

she hugged him and whispered into his ears. "I love burnt dosas"

"I knew you'd say that."he said smiling at her. "so you start attacking the dosa, while i get the paper."

She started picking on the brown remains of what was intented to be a dosa.
Surprising how the dosa could be burnt and yet not cooked properly on the inside. Probably that's why Sai called it his best creation so far. Nidhi chuckled.

The first bit of the dosa was slowly finding its way into her mouth when Nidhi screamed. The dosa wasn't brown because it was burnt. It was brown because it was made of cockroach wings. brown, shiny and plastic like.

Sai came rushing into the room and saw Nidhi screaming like she'd never screamed before. She jumped out of the bed as soon as she saw him and lunged at him wildly.

"You are the one. You put cockroaches in the dosa. you are the one who has been haunting me. You are trying to kill me" she said hitting Sai with all her strength.

"Nidhi! what are you saying? what about cockroaches? calm down. CALM DOWN!"

He was shaking her like a rat. Willing her to quieten down.

She looked at him wildly. She could see the cockroaches coming out from his hair. They were coming out from his finger nails. She could feel them climb over her. Shey were crawling on her. all over her. And he was laughing. He was standing there, throwing back his head in mirthful laughter.

She broke away from him and ran. She had to escape. She had to. This maniac was out there to kill her.

"Nidhi...what are you doing? Where are you running to? There is nothing here Nidhi. Its just me. please listen to me" His voice was frantic now.

The knife which was lying on the dining table slashed his fingers. it cut his chest. tore at his arms.

She sat on him and pared away the cockroaches. One by one. The ones coming out of his finger nails, his hair, his mouth. When she was done, she laughed.

"I cant die now. All the cockroaches are gone."



*********************

The cockroaches never left her.

They were in her little cell too. She could see them crawling all over the room. And she felt as many as twenty scrambling on her head. Running down her nose. Some sliding down strands of hair…she searched for a knife so that she could chop her hair off. Then perhaps they would stop crawling over her. But in that tiny room with bars there was nothing except a thread bare cot, a water jug and a blanket. She reached for the water jug and smashed it over her head.