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'  :)

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! 

Finnish-ing Touches - II

Most pictures have a story to tell. Some funny, some childish and the others wistful. I shall try to list mine (and anecdotes for which I do not appear to have pictures to back me up with) in a chronological order. 

1) I start with a memory that isn't a 'Finnish' memory per se (Nor is it a chronological fit) but is a fond one just around my travel to Finland and is in memory of a favorite uncle.

I was little less than three then and was a 100% into an audio of nursery rhymes sung by yesteryear's 'sensation' in that genre, Preeti Sagar. I used to have it play to me (sometimes sing to me with 'Little Bo Peep' being my favorite) by my grandmother every night just to put me to sleep. Digressing from the topic in hand, another song that my grandfather played to me, especially when I was cross or just lachrymose, was K.L. Saigal's 'So jaa raajkumari'.  If you listen to it now with fresh ears you will very likely find it cacophonous and weepy enough to bring even a peppy person's spirits down. But believe me, back then it worked wonders in calming me (Maybe I discerned a likeness or felt some kind of kinship; the singer and I share a similar nasal voice ;-) ). Although now it does make me weepy but for a whole different set of reasons. Returning to the story, I was flying to Helsinki with my mum that night and had reached the airport when it occurred to me that I had left my audio cassette back home. It was way past midnight, so the shops around had already shut down for the day and it was a good hour long drive to my place. My uncle who had come to see me off  rushed back even before the meek demands of 'Makka zai" had crossed my lips. And huffing and puffing did he return within two hours, to outstretched arms and a beaming face showering him with kisses.

 At his daughter's wedding; the last time ever I laid eyes on him 

(Mangalore, Karnataka; 14 November, 2010)

 The last trip we took together 

(Bekal Fort, Kerala; 18 December, 2009)

For my Bappa, K.N. Rao (1952-2011)

P.S: Love you and miss you Bappa; Mangalore trips aren't the same anymore. I always look around for you even at the slightest hint of tobacco whiff in the air!

2) At the age of two, my mum tutoring me every night about the animals that inhabit the African continent, from a giant orange colored book titled 'Africa'. And the photo of an okapi in particular. Not many people are aware that an animal called okapi exists in our animal kingdom! 

3) A kind lady (total stranger) buying me an ice-cream while boarding a boat with my mum. I was little above two; I remember the smiling face pulling my cheeks and chattering in unintelligible Finnish (or was it Russian, Mum?) :)

4) At the age of three, telling my mum that a couple of ladies on the bench beside us were not speaking Finnish. It actually turned out that they were conversing in Swedish. To this day my mum speaks about this incident not without bafflement.

(At the 'Small Lake'; 1985)

5) I have always loved dogs. I have had them as pets; had one around from the day I was born. But somehow I did not pet or cuddle that cute little poodle in the picture. The kind man kept egging me to pet and stroke the bundle of fur. But I just kept edging away. I remember feeling very sad and longing for another chance at petting him once they had walked away. It really was a dear little thing with soulful eyes!

For the next set of memories, keep an eye out for my third post! :)

Finnish-ing Touches - I

I want to make a trip to Finland again; maybe someday I will.

I spent the first six years of my life shuttling between India and Finland. It was a pretty little town called Tampere in Finland, right on the periphery of the Tundra region with coniferous trees standing tall around charming lakes. Finland is called 'The Land Of A Thousand Lakes' with the last count numbering them to be 187,888. Contrary to most belief, Finland is a Nordic country, but automatically gets grouped with its neighbors Sweden and Norway as a Scandinavian one.

The above picture is of the view from my living room/Kitchen/Bedroom (They all had windows facing the same way) on the 7th floor of a building that had 12 floors. The 13th floor was divided into an attic and the terrace. I did hunt through my treasured photographs for a picture of the building but couldn't find one. But I do remember it to be a rust colored one with intermittent patches of concrete and pebble finishes. It had two wings with sand-pits, bike trails and dainty, small parks on either side of the building. In fact most of my memories are still quite fresh in my mind as if it were just a couple of years ago that I was there, scampering on the streets as a carefree toddler. If I took to penning down every detail that I recall and cherish, I wouldn't have to look for any more topics to adorn my blog space. But since this is one of the constructive and happy outcomes of a memory refresh, I shall go on till the point it starts getting boring even to as generous and patient an audience, as my family and friends.

A couple of minutes walk from our house got us to one of the 187,888 lakes that I had nicknamed 'Small Lake'. I called it so because it was the smaller of the two lakes that I would frequently haunt, so naturally the other one was christened 'Big Lake'.

Small Lake

Big Lake

It was about an hour and a half long walk (for a 2-3 year old and with pine cones strewn all the way, who could resist!) to the 'Big Lake'. And make that 3 hours when spring came along, for it was time for berry picking (I still did not ditch my pine cones; they just went into a separate basket). The walk was an extremely picturesque one complete with little wooden bridges under which ran lyrical brooks in tiny cascades and cave like tunnels with murals bedecking it's otherwise staid walls . The walk was a shimmering pebble trail and dandelions filled the air. All in all it made one pretty postcard.

The place on the whole lacked human touch. The streets were usually devoid of people. Winters brought in the desolation that accompanies an ambient temperature of -30C or lesser. Come summer and we would witness a nod here and a smile there. In general the Finnish were an aloofish lot. But the handful of friends that we made there were a really warm and hospitable bunch. More on the friends and my quirks in my following posts. I should probably focus on the stories that go with the photographs that I have managed to salvage from a fading lot. That might help me cut short what right now appears to be a topic that has a sequel numbered X!

Puppy Love(s)

My anamnestic afternoon exercise for this week was to settle myself on the floor of my old room in the midst of strewn photographs; some in color, some in black and white, some discolored, some frazzled and in tatters with a tape holding the pieces together and some beyond repair. Among the ones that have endured and survived the test of time, of moving houses and of neglect are a couple of ones that brought in the wistfulness and longing surrounding the loss of a loved one. These photographs are of two lesser known members of our family; Mickey and Bobby.

Mickey (1974-1987) was a stray; mum and aunt had found him as a pup, somewhere on the streets of Bombay circa 1974. He was being stoned and teased by some wretched, sadist lads who were deriving pleasure from the little one's whimpers. Severely admonishing the boys for their brutality, my aunt picked up the whining pup and caressed him till he was convinced that he was safe. He seemed to have a belt round his neck, but there wasn't a leash attached; he appeared to have broken free from his master. The belt also could hardly be called one, it was a coarse, frayed piece of rope which probably had been put there by some of the street urchins. Once his whimpers had hushed down to coos, they placed him on the pavement and started on their way only to realize a while later that they had a new fan following. And so they brought him home. That little pup went on to grow to the size of a small calf. This picture of him nibbling on my aunt's hand was taken when he was just 3 months old.

From the time of his entry into our family till the year I was born ,Mickey was never kept on a leash or forced to stay outdoors, though at night he preferred staying out. Sometimes he would just take himself off for a walk around our colony. On other nights he would choose to loiter around our garden or simply sleep on the bench in our patio. During the day he would tail my grandmother all around the house. He would sit at her feet obediently as she cooked in the kitchen, he would tug at her saree pallu cajoling her to join him in his playful antics as she hung the clothes out to dry, he would whine around lunch time with a soulful expression of absolute starvation on his face and he would curl at the foot of her bed during her afternoon siestas. He absolutely loved company, not as much canine as human. When my mum brought home her friends from college, Mickey would grace the drawing room with his presence and would neatly settle himself right at the center of the gang, occasionally throwing in a bark or two while the friends sat chit-chatting. And the friends absolutely loved him.

Most people now believe that quite a few animals including dogs have an intelligence to match or exceed that of humans. But on an emotional level, they still think animals to be quite devoid of the profound faculties. When my grandmother lost her sister, as she was lying on the bed mourning with tears pouring from her shut eyes, she felt something wet wipe away her tears from her streaming cheeks. She opened her eyes to find Mickey licking away her teardrops. And he kept doing so all night, till she stopped crying and fell asleep. Only after that did he lie down right there at her feet. On his mischievous front; Sofas and beds were out of bounds and my grandfather would make it clear to him with a "Mickey, sofaari chonu bashcha na" (Mickey, no climbing and sitting on the sofa) every morning before leaving for work. So every morning  right after the sound of his footsteps would die away, Mickey would make it a point to jump onto the sofa, run the full length of it, jump on to an adjacent diwan and jump back onto the sofa, to and fro, till he would get tired of the exercise. And every evening he would be on an alert, straining his ears for the sound of my grandfather's footsteps as he returned from work. My grandfather's stepping into the veranda coincided exactly with Mickey's descent from the sofa and he would settle himself in one corner of the room, a picture of virtuousness and saintly inculpability as if he never so much as knew the feel of a sofa.

When I was born everything changed; my entry meant Mickey's exit from the family home. He was confined to a kennel in our garden. I feel guilty thinking that I might have been responsible for his losing most of his playfulness in the years to come. When I got a little older, he was sometimes allowed inside the house. I used to play with him quite often and have sometimes had a ride or two on his back. He still was deeply attached to every member of our family but he must have missed his sense of belonging and freedom. He started falling sick quite often. On one such sickness spell, he developed ulcers both inside his throat and also on his body. The body wounds got septic and used to ooze out pus that had a really foul smell of rotting flesh. The vet had given up and was egging us to put him to sleep. But my grandfather refused and took it on himself to feed him, bathe and doctor his wounds. Every day, wearing a surgical mask to keep out the infection as well as to beat the foul smell, he would bathe his wounds, apply antiseptics and bandage them and then would feed him using a tube that he had fashioned from the garden pipe and had sterilized. And Mickey did survive. He continued guarding our house for many years thereafter as he had done several times earlier and managed to foil several burglary attempts around our neighborhood.

One such burglary that Mickey helped nip in the bud cost him his life. Two afternoons after the night he had raised the alarm by his incessant barking and pounding on the kennel door, my grandmother found him lying listless inside his kennel as she took him his lunch. He did not acknowledge her with his usual welcome barks or even eye the food that was placed before him. My grandmother chided him to stop fussing and threatened to take away the food to which he listened to with flattened ears and a teary look. Finally she left him on an acid note saying "Megele saglo dees na tukka javonu baschaka" (I do not have a whole day to feed you). That evening when our gardener, with whom he was on the friendliest of terms, called out his name there was no response. He pulled him by his feet only to find him gone; blue bottled flies and ants had already made home on his furry coat. Someone, in a streak of pure vindictiveness, had poisoned his food  the previous day. I was five then. That picture is still vivid in my mind as I tearfully watched my friend being bundled into a sack.

Bobby (1992-2003) came to us as a month old pup. He was a cur; mixed breed of a dalmatian and a stray. Unlike Mickey, Bobby was always kept outdoors. And his personality was also quite in contrast to Mickey's. Bobby was hardly ever friendly to anyone outside our immediate family, was  a sickly sort and remained little bigger than the size of a pup. But his ferocity was in contrary to his stunted size; he would tug his leash with all his might and snarl menacingly at anyone who happened to so much as touch our gate. And like Mickey, he was a faithful companion for eleven years.

He was kept harnessed; tied to our drawing room window that overlooked the garden. Whenever he needed to grab our attention he used to balance on his hind paws and scratch continuously on the glass pane with his fore paws. He was terribly fond of biscuits and had learnt what the phonetic of the word meant. Any mention of the word would bring in the rasping and he wouldn't stop till he was given one; later we used to spell out B-I-S-C-U-I-T if we ever had to say the word. He loved auto rides, chasing butterflies, playing fetch and was petrified of the water. When out for a walk, he would bark at and challenge other dogs while still on the leash. Once set free, he wasn't much of a hero that he wished to make us believe; he would try and hide behind our legs while the barks would turn into soft woofs. 

When it comes to Bobby too, I feel guilty for he was not kept as close to our family as we should have. He must have been lonely which was evident from his overt jubilation when he was sometimes set free inside the house. He would run around like a maniac with such joyful yelps, lick people's feet and finally settle down on someone's lap hoping for a few petting strokes and more tit-bits. I wasn't around during his last moments and have my sister's depiction to go by. He had been sick for a while and wasn't showing any signs of improvement. That afternoon while I was away at college, his gait became a trifle errant and he suddenly slouched while trying to get to his feet. My grandfather then picked him up and placed him on his lap while his breathing came in gasps and looked pleadingly into his eyes as if trying to find reassurance and comfort in them. For nearly an hour and a half, he sat cradling the little fellow, all the while talking lovingly to him and soothing him with soft caresses till he breathed his last in my grandfather's arms.

They say a dog answers to only one master. For both, Mickey and Bobby, that master was undoubtedly my grandfather. They were both terrified of him and at the same time loved him unconditionally with all the devotion that a dog has for his master. The rest of us were sous-masters; we were to be loved but never obeyed to. That was reserved solely for their master. One raised eyebrow and one call of the name was more than enough to get them crawling on their knees. And I know, though he does not speak of them often, he misses them more than all the rest of us put together. We have never had the nerve to introduce any more pets into the family after these two. The dismal truth that those welcoming barks will never fall on these ears no matter how hard we strain them and the heart wrenching spectacle of watching the little balls of fur turn to dust is not something that our hearts can endure for a third time! Love you, my munchkins. We miss you! :'-(

Touchwood!

They Say I Have A Perfect Life

As a baby screaming, putting up a fight,

Had aged granny rock her through the night,

Singing her lullabies, crooning and humming,

Tirelessly till the wee hours of every morning.

As a toddler spending evenings at the park,

Growing tired and cranky after setting up a lark,

Into the tired arms of old grandpa, would she leap,

He would carry her home every day and kiss her to sleep.

When procrastination during her school-going years,

Brought in a lot of tantrums and a bucketful of tears,

Dad, after a few cutting words, would hurry,

To make sure she was saved from her teacher's fury. 

Though frightful and lanky, she grew to be as a teen,

Comforting words always made her feel like a queen,

When grown-ups would remark sadly, "What a pitiable sight",

Mom's indifference to her appearance made everything seem right.

With listless mousy hair and a crooked nose,

Patchy reddened skin and bushy eyebrows,

Yet her baby sister often greeted her with cries,

Of "Oh my God! You sure are a sight for sore eyes".

She became every teacher's darling,

With her impish smile and a demeanour so appealing,

In studies she had aces, her best friends were her books,

People said it was God's way of apologizing for her looks.

Soon her close friends numbered quite a few,

They poured into her ears about things they came to rue,

She became their confidante, their advisory in chief,

To date hers is the shoulder they look for in their grief.

Now in her thirties, yet she can boast,

Of being daddy's l'il princess and loved by most,

"I am my gramps' baby, the apple of their eyes,

God, let it always be so", she prays every day, in grateful cries.