A Tea Spoon Of Coffee

For the time being, the first light seems to be the most gratifying time of my day which is ironic considering I am a confirmed owl. Though I do not find the singular spans to be the least disconcerting, currently I hail the clock striking four and the breaking of solitude with a sigh of relief.

Arbitrary conversations with mum, drifting from one topic to another brought in some even more arbitrary memories. This morning, as she bustled across the kitchen prepping up for the day's breakfast I found myself enquiring about a particular container that we possessed. There was nothing exceptional about its features; rather it was an extremely characterless, inexpensive tin made of aluminium which my grandfather must have bought in the 50s. The only piquancy that the nondescript tin possessed was that it had always been used to store coffee powder, being air-tight in nature. The tin held in it the virgin aroma of the strong, dizzying and addictive brew that these teenage nostrils had culled. Thereafter coffee was always affiliated with the tin. The beguiling uninspiring canister seduced every cup of coffee to taste loads better than any other that transpired from a lesser receptacle and maybe even better than the coffee strictly called for.

Sadly enough the tin had outdone its shelf life and had developed holes and had to give way to a budding resplendent show-off. I wish I still had it as a relic even if it no longer served its purpose but my absenteeism meant it was perceived at its face value and junked off. My enquiries however set off a train of enmeshed reminiscences and my mum started wondering about the whereabouts of a brass spoon that had always been a loyal companion to the deceased coffee tin. And I can't explain how, but without missing a beat, I mentioned of it being transferred to the tea jar. And on verifying, there it was, standing tall amidst tiny specks of tea leaves. 

The slightly baffling aspect here is that neither do I drink tea (like ever) nor do I ever make a cup whereas my mum does so with a circadian precision since as long as my memory serves me. And she had just finished making herself a steaming cup  not a couple of minutes back! ;)

Dil Maange More

All my life I have been surrounded by really nice people, be it family or friends. A downside to this is that the amount of niceness sums up to a really overwhelming figure which makes moving away from it to lead a comparatively solitary life not a lot of fun. A virtual, digital world is gaining cognizance over a real one and while on one hand I am thankful that it lets me place one foot of mine in a life I have been used to but had to leave behind, it also makes me realize that if it had not been for the super-connectivity that reigns over the entire world, I would still be back in Bombay savoring the company of my near and dear.

Company is much more that getting to hear their voices or have a look-see at their faces. It's about the minuscule things that get stringed together to define our daily course of life. Like a good morning kiss on a grandmother's forehead, or a squealing endearing manner of address to a doting grandfather, sharing the day's work with a friend, ribbings at the dinner table, and badgering and teasing a mum and seeing the look of pained reproach on her face. It need not even be something that marks or demands ubiety or a somatic touchy feely kind of token. It is something that has grown to be so much an implicit part of your life and has blended so efficiently in your routine that you might not even notice it till its cut loose.

Technology sure plays as a sop to my conscience by replacing the palpable bonus bits of my life with a virtual cosmos of propinquity. But although my life sustains even after plucking these guileless nexus away, the kernel of longing is so deep-rooted that it does not show any sign of ebbing away. For which I am grateful, for they elucidate my past, present and future. 

Mums The Wor(l)d

Her smile is all that takes

To make me feel alls well,

There is not a worry in this world

That cannot be put to rest.

A heart so kind, a hand that helps

Heedless of night or day,

Eyes that well to woes of else

Her own she brushes aside.

Buds she nurtured to tender blooms

By showering them with her love,

Owe their entire being and happiness

To an upbringing that's compassionate to all.

Fostering the frail though not in prime herself

Her dedication undeterred,

She tends to her garden of efflorescence

With the patience of a saint.

I wish I had it in me

Only if half her strength,

It would help me be a better personage

One that I can be proud of with a clean conscience.


P.S: A vain part of me wishes I had an iota of her looks. Wouldn't have hurt to be a tad pretty! :)

2000 Leagues Across The Seas...

...is where my home is.

R's grandmother passed away the day before yesterday, rather suddenly. No one from his immediate family was around. Scattered across the globe, the rest of the family could at least make it to the funeral to pay their last respects. Everyone but us.

He sits there sad and brooding, reminiscing over the childhood moments that he spent getting pampered, with his great grandmother and grandmother at his beck and call. The loss is unfathomable even if the days spent in their company were not many in number. No child who has ever known its grandparents cannot not be crazy about them.

People will offer condolences; social protocol demands that they do. Its polite, anthropological and indifferent. They all say that the grief shall ebb away, that there is nothing that time can't heal. Over time the voices of the departed will grow faint in your head. Everyone knows what you feel because its not a complex emotion. But what the relationship meant to you is what only a few will appreciate, understand and grieve with you.

Inexorably, there were days when we did not once summon their existence into our mind. The presence of the extant is always taken for granted. It's the insurmountable that we chase, that we crave for. Life is short, capricious and unpredictable.

Right now my mind is turbulent as can be seen in the disjointed tone of this piece. I am where I am not needed, I came here when I was not needed though I would still want to believe otherwise. Some day when my thoughts are more linear will I write a post that will observe the occasion coherently. Right now my mind lies where my heart lies and that's a 7000 miles away! :'(

In memory of R's great grandmother (who passed away last year at the ripe age of 107) and grandmother 

Insomnious Insights

Back in pre-school, one of the first essays that we had to write, even before we knew what the term essay meant, was 'Me'. It had a standard pattern and began with My name is so and so and I am so many years old. The parent's names and occupations followed. If you owned a pet then its name and breed would be the next in line. And one would conclude with ones likes and dislikes. In all 6-7 sentences construed our existence. Life was uncomplicated enough to fit into a single sheet of a notebook and to be defined by a simple template. At the moment, I would need more than a sheet of paper and a template to outline me.

I am told that I love creating lists, which is so true, and so I shall fashion my essay accordingly (I wonder if there is an -ist term to define this; that ought to go first : ) ). I am (Disclaimer: limited to cited situations only) an/a-

• Escapist: An ostrich with its head buried, I tend to turn a blind eye when in knotty situations hoping that providence is playing a trick and that it will all boil down to nothing (as expressed in this earlier post).
• Perfectionist: No, I am not blowing my own trumpet. I am this ONLY when it comes to an assignment/job. I am meticulous and fussy and neat and compulsive to a point that it gets maddening. And it has its highs and lows. Like in school it proved to be a huge bummer when it came down to taking notes. My handwriting is pretty when I write at a medium pace and with an ink pen. But while trying to keep pace with the teacher's dictations, the uniformity that I so loved went out of the window and I ended up tearing those pages and rewriting the whole piece leisurely at home. It worked well for me at work though. One compliment came from a client who used to bypass the established protocol of assigning work and assign me work directly. On being notified the correct procedure, he confessed that he was aware of the process but did so just because it was a pleasure to have the issue and the resolution documented the way I did (Yay!!! even if it was just flattery :) ).
• Optimist: I believe that there is always a better tomorrow. I believe that my Ammu who is suffering from an acute form of dementia and has the memory span of a goldfish (It's apparently an idiom  which has now been established by some as a myth) will some day go back to being the grandmother I have known, I believe that when it comes to my next job I'll have the good fortune to be surrounded by as wonderful friends, peers and bosses as I was in my last job (I couldn't ask for any better; they were the best), I believe that things that are broken will get mended if they are meant to be and I believe that my reticence to partake in a fight will only bring me peace.
• Pacifist (in an extremely meek form): I hate fights, even being a spectator to one. I usually bite my tongue because I know my retort would only hurt someone and do no good whatsoever. My couple friends do not think it untoward to have disputes when in company which leaves both R and me feeling extremely uncomfortable. We, exchanging glances, offer a silent prayer that neither of us would subject the other to even so much as a contradiction in public.
• Fascist: To my amnemonic grandmother, I am apparently a fascist with a tyrannical disposition who orders her around.
• Opportunist: To my mum I am one because I barely lift a finger when at my parent's. So much so that I'll wait for someone to make a trip to the kitchen just to get me a glass of water.

More on me without the -ists; I couldn't find any more to describe me ;)

• A few near and dear are my established weaknesses. I would do anything and everything for them ( Like Psmith would say "Psmith will do it, Crime not objected to) :)
• I love writing jibber jabber as much as I love reading (Not jibber jabber). Nothing I write is profound or comes close to being intellectual. I write just for the love of it.
• I am a decent cook although the end product is not what it looks like in my head when I first picture it. I tend to get impatient by the end of my cooking spree so I skip the part where I plate the dish :)
• I love dancing  and would have been all Miss Twinkle Toes if not for my two left feet. And I have, in all my life, only had drinks on two occasions. I would like to take a shot (pun intended) at both the next time; Shake an inebriated leg! :)
• I love travelling and visiting new places. I am fond of adventure sports and am looking forward to sky-diving and bungee jumping in one of my future trips.
• I have a decent memory. I am 'A handful's envy, Mumma's pride and a vexation to the rest'. :)
• It's also my biggest weakness that I do not forget. Or even let the other party forget. It's like I am a constant thorn in their flesh :(
• Though I thoroughly enjoy satirical humor, I am not a big fan of the use of sarcasm in general altercations. I find it to be a form of mockery almost as if it is meant to hurt the already wounded and beaten. It bothers me so much that although I know Ammu can't help it and that it's her ailment that makes her resort to sarcasm, yet the barbs that she directs at my mum never fail to tear me up. At that moment, for a jiffy there, I actually resent her for it :'(.
• I am an extremely bad conversationalist. Maybe that's the reason I end up writing jibber jabber.
• A friend pointed out that my hypocrisy was one of the reasons for our sweet friendship turning sour. 
• I am also told that I am a tad manipulative when it comes to conversations; I happen to steer them, to leave me holding the trump card.
• I tend to consider my side of an argument "The gospel truth" :)
• I could fare as just about passable looking with a touch of kohl and lip balm. Without them I am worse than plain Jane. High cheek bones with remnants of appalling acne, I smile with my eyes wide shut =)
• Tall, dark and need not be handsome works for me. A salt and pepper look in a two piece suit with a tie in the boardroom should transform to one in tee and shorts on the sports field. That's how I read my romances. :)

I think its time I put a stop to my pompous ramblings. I have enough material here that would put people through five dates and also enough to make sure there isn't a sixth date; the prospective boyfriend by now having made a run. So the title of Miss Swollen Head of the year goes to I, Me and Myself. I would like to thank all those who contributed their mite to this 'insight' by not mincing matters. And its now time to add Narcissist to that earlier list of ists! Ciao :)

P.S: This post was written at 3 am yesterday, hence the title. I appear to have got bored with my own verboseness and fallen asleep before publishing it!

A Walk To Remember - II

I have run out of practice of making friends. I have been so dormant socially for so long now that I come out as a tongue-tied, awkward oaf when in company of people I am not friends with. The reality stared me in the face on a recent excursion with R's friends; I could barely string together a couple of words to form a sentence. That evening I felt beaten down. Left me wondering if I was ever going to be good at things that I had let slip through my fingers. Has time taken a toll on things that I was genuinely good at, that maybe even defined me! Maybe it's too late. Maybe it's not. Only time shall tell. The one thing that I have been improving at is watercolors. I am nowhere near being proud of or even satisfied with my end results but I am going to try and get there some day. So here is my latest. Philadelphia, a city I am quite fond of and lingers in my wistful memories from my office days. One of the walks to remember!

Philadelphia LOVE Park - Officialy known as John F. Kennedy Plaza

A Walk To Remember - I

I forgot to post a picture of the painting I had mentioned in my earlier blog. It's a copy of a painting by a Polish artist whose works I am in love with. And although mine doesn't hold a candle to his painting, I hope someday I shall be able to realize at least a fraction of his flair and his finesse that I so admire.

(Click pics for larger view)

Its a beautiful alley; makes me want to take a walk down that road, skipping across, alternating between the warmth of the blazing sun and the awnings that the quaint little brollies are furnishing. Here, I could walk for hours. Its looks like a place which speaks of romance. Inured to European tales from my earliest reads I can only set it to imagination yet. I would now say I shall love living here. But living here would dampen the enchantment. We are lured by the elusive, so I think I would leave it at a tarriance and make the fascination a reality by walking 'that walk' some time soon.

P.S: Another one of my recent works, unrelated to the post, but I thought of sharing this one too.

A Weekend That Wasn't

A long due errand that had the felicity of being struck off my checklist last weekend, was a visit to the local library. I am quite a bibliophile and if not for some obscure inertia, I would have been walking down that lane the very next day of my descent into this unfamiliar city. However better late than never they say. So last Saturday, I gave myself a much needed shake and armed with an umbrella stepped out into a very grey and wet evening.

I am a compulsive but a niche reader. Non-fiction, especially philosophy, has never appealed to my predominantly romantic disposition. And almost all of my reading material during my growing years was a bequest from my mother. It was her collection that I raided during my school years and her novels that I would clandestinely read behind text books during exam days (You can't reprimand me for this confession now Mum; its been 15 years, besides, I did just fine. ;) ). That these novels were mostly about blue-blooded dames who, at some point in every novel, surreptitiously stole out in the middle of the night to keep assignments with their heart throbs, did nothing to have me take a peek into my conscience. Among non-fictions, I am partial to historic sagas and medical cases. I also used to love reading the monthly subscription of the Reader's Digest till its standard fell to mere trite, although I had my preferences in its articles too. I used to religiously solve the 'Word Power' and finish 'Laughter, the best medicine' and 'All in a day's work' as soon as I got my hands on the book. All articles related to medicine were always dipped into. With the rest, it always used to depend on the couple of lines of prologue that the article usually carried right below its title.

I spent a good two hours at the library browsing through its rather unfamiliar collection. My repertoire mostly consisted of British works so I am not quite conversant with American literature, especially from the rather recent novelists. I finally settled for a few familiar names and gambled with a couple of exploratory ones; eight in all. Here's a brief scrutiny of how I felt about each of these (I don't want to call it a review; it is more of an insight into my state of mind then and the memories it evoked.)

• Robin Cook's novels; Doesn't matter which, they all circle around deadly diseases with each symptom depicted in the most magnifiable way possible. After about two pages, I began to envisage experiencing some. It took me back to my Reader's Digest days when I used to read the medical articles after which even the minutest headache and even so much as a sneeze would take me on a self-diagnostic ride. I would come up with the most ludicrous prognosis and would initially fret over it silently until it would be too much to stomach. That's when I would confess about my fears to Mum who would then confirm the ailment to be a very obvious and acute case of hypochondria. :)
• 'The Moonstone' and 'The Woman In White' By Collins: These are re-reads; they belong to my collection that I left behind in Bombay. 'The Woman In White' especially has some very early memories associated with it, long before I took to novels. Back in the day, Doordarshan had aired a Marathi series by the name श्वेताम्बरा (Shwetambara; literally means dressed in whites). It was an adaptation of the Collins' novel and held an appeal because of the spookiness that surrounded the title track of the series; A woman dressed all in whites with a ghostly pallor peeping from behind a banyan tree (Indian folklore epitomizes the banyan tree as an abode for spirits) in the dead of the night. It made me follow the series. Come to think of it, all the series that I loved watching and happen to still vividly recall were either morbidly tragic or uncanny (I remember 'Avahan' - Morbid and 'Kile ka rahasya' - spooky; and I was all but five). Later, when I happened to read the novel, it held quite an unique appeal thanks to the serial.
• 'A Will And A Way' and 'Loving Jack' By Nora Roberts: Typical romances with the kind of plots that make you wish you lived amidst its pages. Protagonists who hate each other and quarrel all along or one silent lover and an oblivious miss, are two plots that could never fail to win a gal's heart. 
• 'The Villa Of Mysteries' By David Hewson and 'The Clairvoyant': Books pertaining to the supernatural; a subject that has fascinated me from my heydays. I have quite a lot of anecdotes on this topic; enough to dedicate an entire post to it.

So all in all, it was a very busy weekend; the busiest I have been in months considering I managed to read all these books and still had time on my hands to draw and paint a watercolor landscape and also cook a four course elaborate and sumptuous Indian meal! That was my 'All in a day's work'  :)

I Hear Thunder!

I love the rains. The wet soaking mud, the earthy smell that fills the air, the pitter patter sploshes, the fecund splash of green everywhere, the carpet of blooms around a cluster of trees and the raindrops trickling on my window pane. In Bombay, where I come from, onset of monsoon brings in a dread because of the filthiness that is growing by the minute. It has now become synonymous with garbage, stink, flies and diseases. But in spite of these impediments, I have managed to fall in love with it.

It is wondrous how a thundershower brings in an amalgamation of glee and gloom. The jubilant children playing in the puddles, the fresh buds of flowers bursting to life and the sea of colorful umbrellas against a backdrop of the sad grey sky takes me on an emotional seesaw. One minute I am down on that seesaw, trying to reach out for what seems to be elusive. And the very next minute, my habitual composure and natural cheery being sneaks in and eases me into tranquility. And I love being on that seesaw. Maintaining a balance would be ho hum. I might lose the fascination that I set store by for something as simple and mundane as the rain and I don't think I am ready to let go of its allure as yet. I want to hang in there for as long as possible, away from the humdrum that a balanced, stoic life holds for me as a 'Grown-up' :)

The Blue Beads

Look up at the open skies

Let the pearl-drops soften your tired face

Those tears will get washed away

Or will meld not leaving a trace.

Let the wind run its fingers through your hair

Stop and listen to it whisper

Just might bring a smile to those lips

That are quivering to a whimper.

So dance and prance and trot and run

Forgetting the aching feet and pains

Don't ever stop being that child

Who loves getting soaked in the rains.

Finnish-ing Touches - III

Because I was just a little over five when we made our last trip to Finland, all these memories might appear jejune and unsophisticated to the reader. But for me they mark the time when the constraints surrounding adulthood did not prevail. It surrounds the immunity I enjoyed as a child. Maybe that's the reason for the clarity even though its been nearly three decades. Rather, the more recent ones are obfuscated with trifle inconsistencies each time I try recollecting them, but each one of these is as clear as a crystal.

6) These ones are taken outside my dad's workplace. It was at a walking distance from our house. The campus was of a moderate size with just two floors in each of the buildings. The thing that stood out in the campus was the array of modern art in the form of sculpts, scattered here and there around the buildings. The one in the pics was an obelisk covered in mirrors on all its sides. Unfortunately I do not have any pictures of the rest; not even of my favorite sculpt which happened to be a green colored hand!

7) Särkänniemi, my childhood 'Disney Land'; I used to wait for that one day during spring/summer when we would make that trip, just like how kids wait for Christmas. I first saw dolphins at Särkänniemi and fell in love with sea creatures (I am still petrified of them coming in contact with me; we share a long-distance relationship ;) ). Särkänniemi has an observation tower that was visible from the terrace of our building. Such a huge fan was I of the place that I used to make trips to the terrace during winters, just to see the tip of the tower and glean some happiness out of the knowledge that come spring and I would get to visit the place (Silly nai! :) ). The picture was taken in the zoo that is adjacent to the tower. At the base of the tower, outside the zoo, was a deep pit with seals and right at the entrance of the zoo, on one side was a little blue tub with tiny turtles swimming around energetically and on the other side were little miniature house-like blocks with bunnies snuggling, their little red noses peeping out. 

8) My sister is less than three months old in this picture, when she made her first trip to Finland. Once we had reached the Bombay airport and were just about to get done with the immigration formalities, my mom realized that my sister was missing a sock. It was a woolly little white thing with blue bunnies all over it. I remember her retracing her steps and dragging me along looking for that sock which alas, we weren't able to find! This picture though is taken on the train from Helsinki to Tampere after our flight.

9) I was the proud owner of two dolls; one which I had picked myself (the yellow and blue haired weirdo in the picture), the other thrust on my by some kind friend (It was a clown-like red guy whom I never took to ;) ). The blond in the picture, who happened to be a good friend till this play date, turned foe because we kept fighting over the same weird doll.

10) On the fourth floor of our building lived Kovvikka, a friend of mine. She was a couple of years older than I and had six or seven siblings, the names of most I can't seem to recollect. The second from the youngest was named Cookie. We all used to gather every evening and have a good time in the park and the sand-pit and go home covered from head to toe in sand. You could literally build a sand castle of your own with just the amount of sand that my curly hair would retain. Then one fine day I returned home, not covered in sand, but in blood. In a argument over whose turn it was on the swing, Cookie, in a fit of rage had flung a small rock right at me which happened to hit my head. I didn't feel any pain nor was I aware that I was bleeding profusely. Kovvikka however gauged the situation pretty well and knew instantly that her sister was in deep trouble and so was I, but in a different way. She grabbed my hand and rushed not to my home but hers. Her mom bathed and dressed my wound and then almost trembling all the way took me to my mom who didn't react at all once she saw that I was fine. In fact I remember insisting that she let me go back to play and after some weak protestations she just tied a scarf around my head and let me go. Cookie wasn't there when I joined the jingbang again but she did turn up in some time with her mom. Poor thing must have got a good thrashing for she was all red-eyed and hichuppy. She kept saying something that her mom was egging her to repeat when I failed to understand. Finally I just said o.k. after the kid had repeated it at least some eight times. Turns out she was saying "Forgive me", a word I was unfamiliar with having only heard of 'Sorry'! Again, I do not have a picture of Cookie or Kovvikka or any of her other 6-7 siblings :(

And I can go on and on. Maybe I shall find ways to incorporate the other remaining anecdotes in posts that are not exclusively Finnish. I so look forward to going back but at the same time I am more than apprehensive at the thought of it. Going back would mean looking at all of this with a fresh pair of eyes. Everything will have changed. And that would mean applying another coat of paint on my canvas of memories. And if the present is antithetical to my past, the coat will be an opaque one and will forever eclipse my innocent flashback cosmos!