Priya Velayudhan's Blog: Blackeyed Dreamer

[image error]                            When Avrahaam Yaakob tells his son, “God will be with you at the editing table, as you write. God will do the editing. You will merely be his instrument”, it is as if God was really there with my friend Anup Narayanan as he wrote the script for ‘The 137 Auditions of Avrahaam Yaakob’. Guiding his hand lovingly, making slight corrections here and there, replacing that word with another one more apt, erasing that sentence which didn’t quite belong there. Writing, I’ve always felt, is a painful process. But just as any act of love, even the greatest pain feels like colossal joy. And in the moment held by a pause, just as in writing, a lot is said. Beyond the ability of even the most articulate scriptwriter or the most attentive reader to fathom. It is best left unexplained.

                                As I watched this movie by the windowsill of my room, the wind was raging outside, and the rain poured down angrily on the tired earth. And in all that mayhem, my one-year old son lay asleep calm and completely unaware of the storms raging outside and inside. My heart sank as the young boy who would later be known as Avner, watches helplessly as the kind man drops him back at the orphanage. My blood boiled and I clenched my teeth unknowingly as I watched Avrahaam play (rather, live) the character of a father who harbours lust for his daughter. My soul rose in elation as Hari and Fatima discover their naked souls, unable to take their eyes off such beauty. And just as my soul flapped its wings to fly, it came crashing down as Avner bore thrashing after thrashing just for safeguarding his friends’ secret. When the light shone on Avner’s face the day he got his name, the little boy’s expressionless eyes held so much hope. Hope that was not seen before. Avner’s graceful acceptance of whatever came his way, the way he submitted to everything with a simple ‘Never mind’ broke my heart time and again, in a manner so subtle that it didn’t feel like a heartbreak at all. As Jyothi and Avner embark on a journey to see off Avner’s deceased father, not a word is spoken between them. But so much is said. So many miles traversed. So many memories handpicked, softly dusted and lovingly embraced before putting them back on that shelf we preserve in our hearts. Jyothi does a commendable job of being the best friend Avner could have asked for in that moment. She silently lends her shoulder for him to gather himself and pick up his broken pieces to go where he needs to go. And as the sky cries along with all of our hearts, there is an unseen rainbow as Jyothi demands Avner to come and offer Kaddish, the revered Jewish prayer offered for a loved bereaved soul, for his father. It struck me that she demanded him to do so, without gently sitting back to let him mourn the way he wished to. It struck me that for the meek girl she seemed to be, it might probably have taken a good amount of courage to open her umbrella and demand him to join her. Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe it was God’s hand and she was merely an instrument. 

          The story also left me with a lot of unanswered questions. Why would Jyothi, a complete stranger to Avner join him on his journey? In many ways she is the real hero. Going all the way risking her life knowing how dangerous the world could be, especially for a woman. Why did Avner move out of his home after bearing the brunt of safeguarding his friends’ whereabouts? Wasn’t home the safest place he knew? Why did he move in with Nandhan, his father’s friend? I guess it makes most sense to let certain things go, without probing too much. Does one count the number of petals or calculate the angles between them when one sees the perfect rose? Surrendering to its perfection and accepting its many mysteries is the only way one understands its glory. 

                 I feel elated and extremely grateful to Anup for sharing his work of love for me to sit back and relish every moment. Not a frame is extra, and not a frame is missing. It’s perfect the way it is. For an artist’s first feature film, it is extraordinarily brilliant. Be it the non-linear narrative, the humanness in the characters, or the remarkable work displayed by each of the artists. In the scantness of words, I found an entire world. A world inhabited by men and women, much like us, dreaming their dreams and holding on to their hopes. A salute to you, Anup. You’ll have a pretty high benchmark to rise above, in all your future works, which I am definite you will. Looking forward to see your next masterpiece. 

[image error]

                               I don’t remember what woke me up this morning. It certainly wasn’t a bird song, for there was no bird willing to drop down from the clear endless sky right to our window side and announce its arrival with a song. It wasn’t a gust of wind that shook me off from my dreamless sleep. Was it the aroma of freshly ground coffee from the outdoor kitchen nearby? Probably hand-picked beans from the lush twenty-acre coffee estate on which this cosy homestay was located. But frankly put, it wasn’t that either. It was a little far-fetched to imagine that a smell, no matter how strong, could jolt one out of bed. Especially when the non-stop buzz of everyday had reached a level that mandated a well-spent well-deserved well-relaxed vacation. And this was certainly turning out to be one.

                                          Happily lost in the woolen quilts offered in the rooms at the Elephant Corridor homestay, I looked out the door that was left ajar. My adventurous husband seemed to have left on a morning walk. And it does explain quite a lot that he hadn’t even closed the door! For many reasons, this place gave me a strong sense of safety. No one would sneak in, no one had harmful intentions, and none of the four dogs that inhabited this place would walk in to our room or hurt us in any way. In the owner Viju uncle’s words, “They are well-trained well-behaved dogs”. And that was unarguably true.

                   I strained my ears for the morning sounds. The faint clattering of dishes from the kitchen nearby, voices conversing in the local Coorg language with what seemed like English thrown in occasionally, and the subtle breathing of my four-year old daughter. In the soft light of the Coorg morning, I slowly replayed in my mind the moments of yesterday. The warmth of the bonfire around which we all had dinner – walking, sitting and posing for pictures. The faces of people, the light of the fire lending a beautiful aura to them. The delicious and exotic wood apple curry – sour, sweet and irresistible. Viju uncle putting our little one to sleep, as we slowly nibbled on baked cheesecake after a heavy hearty meal. My daughter conversing with Viva, the calmest (and probably wisest) of their dogs. It had so far been a holiday filled with warm frame-worthy moments.

                            As I later walked out of Manomay – our room in the homestay, I was greeted by Viju uncle who also showed me around his family’s 150-year old ancestral home. The pictures on the wall, the articles carefully pinned, and age-old photographs…this was one lavishly pampered home. Just the way Viju uncle and his wife, Nimmi aunty takes the greatest care to ensure that every single one of their guests is utterly at home. Sitting in the verandah of their beautiful home, my straight view was the long corridor-like walkway to the gate of this estate. I imagined elephants ambling around, their large feet crushing the lush foliage, their tiny eyes taking in little squares of scenic perfection, and their shadows creeping in to the Chengapas’ living room to haunt good old Viju uncle and his beautiful wife. Time passed by like a curious tourist here, stopping by to take a closer look at such picture-perfect corners. I didn’t realize my morning cup of black tea was getting cold, but it didn’t really matter. The freshness in the air lasted long and kept me perked up.

                         When the time came to say goodbye, we lurked around their extensive lawn unwilling to get back in our car and drive off yet. We all grouped together and smiled for the camera, and later repeated our goodbyes at every step we walked towards our car. We drove away, our hearts lighter and our smartphones heavier with a whole lot of photographs – each one a pleasant memory, and worth so many stories. This was indeed a home away from home, and we knew it wouldn’t be too long that we came back to visit the Chengapas again.

[image error]

                          Sitting from where I sat, I could only see the tamarind tree top gently swaying with the breeze. And the sunlight barging in like an unruly child through the window, making a tunnel of light and dust that lit up the dull red carpet. I could hear the clanging of stainless steel as the maid washed the dishes. The kitchen was two rooms away, but the clanging was prominent. Maybe she had had enough of the never-ending chores. The living room was unkempt as most living rooms in homes that housed children are. A pack of cards lying loosely on the floor, a tired rag doll on the sofa – clearly uncared for, and an ugly brown stain on the beige satin couch – a tell-tale sign of yesterday’s evening drink that the kids fought over. And through all this mayhem, if one could carefully strain one’s ears, the persistent tick-tock of the large clock on the wall that almost seemed ominous. Tied forever to the wheelchair, my sole entertainment was observing my surroundings. They say when God takes away something, he gives something else in return. In my case, it was razor sharp eyesight in return for paralysis waist down. Or as my son puts it, paraplegia. Hardly makes a difference. Just as it hardly made a difference struggling through life on a government job with meagre wages and educating our brilliant son all the way through medical college. What difference would it have made if we hadn’t struggled so much? Probably there would have been more time and love. For it took time for me to get my things done now, and I am helpless to do them on my own. If my wife were here, these thoughts would probably not even make their way into my mind. I would surely be sipping green tea looking out of the window, enjoying the cool breeze and warm sun on my face at the same time, and hearing her lively commentary on what was going on outside. Kids walking back from  school, the local icecream vendor and his delightful vehicle of bright colours, the newly married couple walking hand-in-hand towards the bus-stop…she would bring in all the sights and sounds of the outside world to the tip of my tongue. Adding to it, her stories – imaginary and otherwise. She was always a good cook, and she could cook up stories as well as she could cook a savoury feast. She would make me see the world as she saw it. The same world that I now felt had abandoned me.

                              Sometimes, the world becomes too much to take in and I shut my eyes. Today as I shut my eyes for a moment of peace, I heard the click of the door and footsteps. I knew it was the man of the house. For parents always know when their child walks in – maybe it’s the smell of them, or the silent sounds they make. Often I play a game with myself – straining to hear the voices I expected to hear next. The sound of the shoe rack being opened with a swift move of his hand, the harsh thud made by his shoes landing onto it, and the loud sigh that would invariably follow. Then the routine questions and answers. “Appa, how are you today? Do you have any aches anywhere? Had tea? What did you have for dinner? Where are the kids? Didn’t they spend time with you? Did you get your afternoon sleep?”. He would ask the same questions, all of them, even though he knew the answers. Out of consideration of course, but sometimes I felt – more out of habit. On days like these, when it was difficult to find peace with my eyes shut, I would open them again and scan the surroundings. And then, I would latch my eyes on to something particular on purpose. Today it was the framed picture of my grandson’s first ‘painting’ – the colourful purposeless scribble that his mother affectionately used to call ‘modern art’. No one could tell what it was. Or in other words, anyone could what it could be. As I looked at it today, it seemed to me like angry tides mercilessly thrashing a seashore. A tide of rainbow colours, no doubt. And next to it, a dying tree. Well, imagination is what feeds the artist. And at this ripe old age of 80, I’ve become a budding artist at last!

                              Through this imaginary forest of trees and tides, entered a soft polite voice. “Appa, you alright?”. My daughter-in-law. I opened my eyes gently and found her face in the dim light. Electricity was costly these days. And so my resourceful son had turned off the lights assuming that I was asleep. “I’m alright, dear. You look tired as usual. Why don’t you have something quickly and go to sleep? I see dark circles under your eyes. Not a sign of good health, you know”. She gave that all-too-familiar rueful smile. “Yes I will, appa. Let me check on the kids first”, she said and passed indoors. Kids…I smiled to myself. If Sarada were still alive, the kids would have been here in this room surrounded by the vivacity of her voice as she narrated stories and enacted them with her eyes. The jungle, the lion, the deer, the frog in the pond…they all came alive right here, right before their eyes. And what a pleasure it was – watching the children, struck by wonder and living that very moment right here. When Sarada left, she took with her the life from this home and the light in the children’s eyes. After all, who could narrate stories to them like their grandmom could? They resorted to other games, other sources of entertainment…their father’s tab became a constant companion, contributing lavishly to the lifeless stillness of their home.

                                              “Appa, it’s 9 o’clock. Let me tuck you to bed. You’ll tire yourself simply sitting here”, said my son. I gave my mute approval as I always did. And as always, he lifted my frail body and laid me carefully to bed. I winced in pain, to which my son pretended not to notice. What could he do to ease my pain? One’s pain was one’s own. And he of all people knew how I hated sympathy. “Where’s Adi and Ammu? No goodnight kisses for grandpa?”, I asked even though I knew the answer. “Mmm…they must have had a tiring day, appa. They are already asleep”. If Sarada were here, she would ensure that I was given two pecks each, on both cheeks by both of them. No grandfather has had his fair share of goodnight kisses from his grandchildren. And I was no exception. With Sarada was buried the hope – that fragile feather-light hope of reliving fatherhood. Now I had all the time in the world and no means to fill it with moments. And so it would be till I close my eyes forever – vacant moments of loneliness, with the busy world spinning around with not a speck of care.

Picture Courtesy: Ben Sutherland (https://www.flickr.com/photos/bensutherland/5342405003/in/photolist-996dT6-8iw7t-NFT3-gS9r57-2xfB5a-rBm2aw-F6vep-gSag9n-gS9sbW-SUBCF-5dk3c9-9ZXBBv-gS9nVw-6evse4-3b4evJ-gS9oX1-gS4Jaw-mXEqB-gS5PfM-gS9rKh-6FnZ25-7Vx9Mc-84UT1P-nYRSt-nTjiPK-qEibq4-bfYYqF-77VLzE-fTVgT-nWdjdu-7XnaA-gS4PyC-2oiCc-gS5k5t-gS5QmV-gS4WgA-e67U62-m98PM-bsZ2su-8YehdS-gS5TVP-gS5qBR-gS56UG-gS51Af-gS4Sod-o9UnPK-gS579u-gS53hc-oacJDk-gS58Rj)

[image error]

There was a little girl, with as lovely a name as Ezra

She liked peanut butter sandwiches and roasted almonds.

And illustrated books filled with riddles.

She liked the smell of crayons and the feeling of painting books with colours.

She loved the way her mother combed her hair and tied it up in two ponytails.

She felt joyful when she woke up in the morning and dreamt of clouds and rainbows.

She enjoyed getting ready for school, and raising her hand up in the air when the teacher asked a question.

It thrilled her to discover the magic of numbers and the secrets of arithmetic.

But lately, all she did was fear.

Fear for whether she would return home from school that day.

Fear for whether her father would return home from work that day.

Fear for her little brother growing inside mommy’s tummy.

Fear for her best friend Ayesha, as she was one of the ‘others’.

Fear for the big bad bombs dropping like hailstones from a sky which was falling apart.

Feared by the screams for help, and the desperate cries of small children.

Feared by Fear itself.

————————————————————-

In another corner of the world, there lives a lovely girl who goes by the name of Amelie.

She loved dressing up, and playing with her mother’s makeup.

She loved teasing her little brother, and making him cry.

She waited for weekends when she could meet her father, and they would eat ice cream and take a trip up the Eiffel Tower.

She adored her friends at school and looked forward to see them each day.

She loved putting her doll to sleep singing sweet French lullabies her grandmother used to sing for her.

She loved the sweetness in the simple pleasures of everyday.

But now, she lives in fear.

Fear of the deafening cries and the noise and the mad ruckus.

Fear of the noise of gunshots and the senseless commotion.

Fear of the thought of whether or not her father would make it past the injuries.

Fear of her mother’s soft cries at night, never once knowing that her daughter could hear them well.

Fear of staying home all day, waiting for the good old days to return and when she can go back to school.

Fear of finding the school corridors a little less full.

Fear of feeling unsafe and insecure each and every moment.

————————————————————-

The fear is the same. And for a child, it can be suicidal.

Wherever you are, sweet child of mine…Be safe, be warm, be protected, and be loved.

Till peace returns to this wretched world again, if it ever will.

And till then – be strong, be compassionate and believe.

Photo Courtesy: Ijholloway Photography (https://www.flickr.com/photos/desertrose76/8695427481/)

[image error]

“No mama, you never understand. So don’t even try”, said my expectedly defiant daughter as she banged her door on me. No one would agree that parenting was easy, but sometimes even I wanted to give up for the day. I fondly remembered the time when her world revolved around me, and of course her father. She would yelp in delight as we got back home from work every night, and smother wet kisses and tight hugs on us turn by turn. Her first footsteps and her first fall. Each time she fell, she’d come running to make it okay with a kiss. Every morning she would wake up and cry till she could see and touch me. All that seemed so long ago. Times have changed, and my adorable toddler has turned into a rebellious teen. A tough nut to crack, but mellow and soft on the inside – as only I knew it.

It was understandable why she was behaving the way she was – her best friend was moving out of the city. On account of her father’s job transfer, this was inevitable and there was nothing the two friends could do about it. Other than spend the little time left the best way they can. Reminds me of a similar incident I had to face long ago. I was forced to leave behind a childhood I had so lovingly built, and friends so carefully picked and nurtured, and build my life again in what people called my ‘native place’. It was funny the notions people develop about the word ‘home’. Lush greenery, coconut trees, heavy rains and a sky that is forever overcast – these images rushed to my mind whenever I thought of my native place. But when I thought about home, it was a different canvas altogether. A modest apartment that was far from attractive, a cluttered room, a bookshelf stuffed with Enid Blyton, Ruskin Bond and R K Narayan, pigeons fighting for space in a small balcony…the only signs of green were the greyish-green doors and windows of the apartment the Government gave to us free of cost. Ten years later, scorching summers and chilly winters had sketched a lovely portrait of what would remain my idea of home for a long time to come.

Childhood was made up almost entirely of school. Right from walking to the bus stop with my father till the time I ambled back home, the day was filled with a potpourri of moments. Some happy, some sad, but every one of them blessed and truly missed. Winters meant walking right into the early morning fog with nothing but torchlight and my father’s hand as the guiding force. Doing whatever humanly possible to avoid taking my hands out of my blazer pockets, I wandered around in school just like everyone else. School assemblies were a test in patience, and most days when we opened our mouths to sing the national anthem, only mist would come out. Biting the chill from November to January, winter was also a time of warmth. A time of bonding, sweet memories and melting moments…When the company of friends and conversations about ‘nothing in particular’ could warm us more than a fleece blanket or a bonfire. Summer days stretched on and on, with the sun burning down on us till late evening. But never once did I feel the fire. We walked around at midday, happily chattering with friends and sharing stories like we always did. Each day ended on a good note. No matter how bad the exams went, or how tough a time some teachers gave us, or even however much remained to be done for the next day, we went to bed with a sweet happiness and gratitude which we were too young to realize. No text messages, but always connected. We never asked each other “What’s up?”. We knew the answer already, probably more precisely than anyone else.

Years have come and gone, and a lot has changed. Including the people who made my childhood what it was. Now they were just names that aroused nostalgia, and a flashback to a better time. But thankfully, some things never change. Some people never leave. Like the moon that takes new shapes every night, but always returns. All you have to do is look up and spot the light shining down on you. A million nameless stars light up our skies, but there is only one moon. And you know it’s there always. You don’t seek assurance, you’re sure. That is friendship for me.

I looked out the window and smiled at the night sky. My daughter had time. She would eventually work around the stars and find her moon.

Photo Courtesy: Christy Birmingham (https://www.flickr.com/photos/christybirmingham/8591696155/in/photolist-e6dFWk-bBmySs-97P8Rb-5ARxSq-aq2DMi-qC6Q3W-5FN4xB-61tTpN-bvxZsU-dv8Waf-ahgX8t-ktnYHN-5aeizb-uiu4Sx-bvy2LW-bJsMJe-7U3yso-7TZdPg-7U3qhs-6HKumo-bA5QCQ-4eCBMJ-bvy2o1-bJsA2T-7TZhp6-7TZfyT-7TZ9pc-w9hfKr-mKbUxb-fc3B4M-bNe5Fa-qxmyzr-2WWdDE-bWcVJA-bzjfM9-7em3R9-7Tvt9T-ij7gyL-bziZsG-8CMKKZ-bWcXby-dae2NX-7uBthx-5yweP8-7wtvf-9W8bpB-9hHKGp-9VUGvV-79RwaJ-cUgf9Y)

[image error]

Back then, she used to run outside at the very onset of rain. Walking barefoot just to splash about in the muddy water, letting the joy flow out from someplace inside her. What is it about rain that unleashes hidden happiness in people? She couldn’t tell. But she knew for certain that before the showers ended, she would almost become enlightened. Or rather, enlivened.

But that was a long long time ago. Now, she couldn’t run even if she wanted to. The pain in her knees got harder to bear as the days passed. So she’d be happy just to watch the rain from the bedroom window, smiling wistfully at the blurry view. Life at 60 did offer its share of modest joys. She tried to forget, if only for a while, the nauseating smell of Tiger Balm which was essential if she were to get by with all the joint ache. Some days, her arthritis got worse. To distract herself, she lavishly treated herself with black coffee. Her deceased husband used to say with a laugh, “Make me some coffee…it can cure loneliness”. Nevertheless, he passed on and left her behind in a big beautiful house that seemed lesser and lesser like a home with each passing day. Drinking coffee several times a day she felt, was a way of connecting with his departed soul. Exclusive Columbian coffee sent as a customary gift from their son Arun, who was ‘happily settled’ in the US. She smiled at the thought of him. Smart young man he was. Working in a highly established mobile company, married to an intelligent young lady who was teaching at a primary school and father to an adorable young lad. She met them often on Skype. The pleasure of hearing the little one babble endlessly…thank God for technology, she used to think at times.

The photos hung on the wall appear lifeless now. The one clicked on their 25th wedding anniversary – both of them almost on the verge of spitting out laughter! She remembered it clearly…how Arun cracked a stupid joke just to make them smile. Then there was the one of their son and his gorgeous bride on their wedding day, the one taken on their grandson’s first birthday, Arun’s graduation, her husband’s retirement, 60th birthdays, the one of Arun and Meera in front of the Taj Mahal…so many memories. Funny how we try to freeze time and yet can’t relive those moments. If these weren’t enough, there were photo albums to pore over…but what’s the point if it just made her feel even more lonely? She sighed and stepped into the kitchen. Coffee time!

A hot cup of coffee, a couch and a book – these were her daily companions now. Photographs and phone calls were jealous friends who came once in a while to taunt her. But books…they were reliable. They would stay until she felt better. She scanned the book shelf in the study. R K Narayanan, Salman Rushdie, Agatha Christie, Shakespeare…who was going to give her company this evening? She picked Agatha Christie’s ‘And Then There were None’. “Detective novel…this would lighten me up”, she thought.

Ting Tong. She slowly got up from the couch, and went to open the door. “Who could be visiting me at this hour?”, she thought. It was a Sunday, so she wasn’t expecting the domestic help or the postman. Who else would visit an old woman?

“Grandma, can I come in?” The voice belonged to a sweet little girl of about five years. She had never seen her before. “Of course, you may. Come right in!”, she replied. “I’m new around here. We moved in to the house next door. Your house looks pretty nice from outside. And you have the most beautiful roses! So I thought I’d come in and make friends!”, the girl explained before she was asked. Grandma smiled and said, “Well hello, you’re my new friend now. What may I call you?”

“My name’s Tara. You may call me Twinkle if you like”, said the new little friend and flashed a million-dollar smile.

“That’s a beautiful name. So Twinkle, you like chocolate?”

And thus began a beautiful friendship. Untainted by material grandeur, unmatched in its resplendent innocence. Twinkle became the lone star on her horizon, lighting up her days with pleasant chatter and unending questions. Why do roses have so many colours, why do plants become tall, why do trees spread their branches, why do flowers die…? Together they walked and talked, and shared life’s little puzzles and mysteries. As the seasons changed, their friendship grew strong and steady. One night before drifting off to sleep, she spoke to her husband like she used to everyday. “Twinkle…aaah you must meet her! She’s a brilliant little girl. When she’s around, I forget my arthritis. I feel like it’s family again. Wish you were here”. Sometimes I guess, God sends us small bundles of happiness, just so we can get by in this fast uncaring life. Like someone said, happiness reveals itself in places where we least expect to find it. Like a butterfly. Or a mushroom that sprouts under fallen tree trunks. It’s like when you become old, really old, you forget that your glasses are on your nose. And you being forgetful as you are, go around all over the place looking for your glasses, when all the while they were there – perched comfortably on your nose.

Photo Courtesy: Dana (https://www.flickr.com/photos/roseannadana/15302699032/in/photostream/)

[image error]

It’s been a long time…and I am going to be writing about living in your fantasy, and why it is so important. I’ve been told over and over, for as long as I can remember, that it’s about time that I let go of the fantasy world I’m clinging onto. It didn’t make sense to me earlier, for as far as I’m concerned, this world they are talking about is very real to me. But I guess, an inevitable part of growing up is coming to the realization that the ‘real’ world out there is harsh and there is very little beauty around. Life isn’t a ballad, and worse…not even meant to be one. If you told me that today, I would very well nod my head in supposed agreement, but deep down I refuse to accept that.

Sounds foolish? Or immature, or kiddish, or nonsensical, if you may call it?

Well, call it what you may. But I simply refuse to believe that life isn’t a ballad. Yes it is. Life is a ballet dancer dressed in exquisite baby pink, standing on her toes and moving the world around her with a touch of her invisible magical wand. Life is a feather staying afloat on a lake of clear blue water, dancing in swirls and curls. Life is a child on a beach, making sand castles with child-like wonder and childish perfection.

Yes, the beauty is out there. You just need to make time for it. It’s like finding a white cloud in a charcoal sky. Like chasing water bubbles in frantic madness, as if they were not going to burst anyway. I believe it’s important, if not the most important thing, to keep alive your happiness and hope, and symbols of beauty. Probably, they will keep your days shining when your nights start getting longer. Yes, hold on to that wish.

Photo Courtesy: Martin Thomas (https://www.flickr.com/photos/martin_thomas/7632653238/)

[image error]

When it’s over, take me there

Where the fields are green and the skies are blue,

And the sounds of happy children resonate

Not deafened by the helpless cries that fall on deaf ears

Not scarred by the blood that flows endlessly, emptying itself into a generous abyss

Where the words ‘touch’ and ‘feel’ evoke happy thoughts,

And freedom like an eagle, flies fearless and high

Where knives are used only to peel apples and not maim hapless souls

Where the beauty of a soul is not marred by the stamp of sindoor, the beads of a rosary or the mask of the Hijab

Where flowers don’t lose their ‘sanctity’ wherever they are placed, and their fragrance spreads far and wide, without caution

A land where home is not restrained to the walls of a house, and nests of comfort reside in many places

Where girls grow up with security and comfort, in turn raising their girl children to be free citizens

A place where I can walk hand in hand with my friend, not fearing the consequences

Where girls can run free and far, without looking back to see who’s chasing them

Where ‘wheels on the bus go round and round’ stirs up a happy childhood memory, not a dreaded nightmare

When it’s over, take me there

And probably we might find our lost angels, waiting for their unsung requiems to be heard.

Photo Courtesy: Ahmad Hammoud (https://www.flickr.com/photos/ahmadhammoudphotography/5558949439)

In a sleepy town called Bakersville snugly situated on a hilltop in the idyllic Wayanad district of Kerala, Christmas was no less festive. Every house proudly exhibited a Christmas tree, Christmas star and the famed Nativity scene, which lit up the black nights all through the Yuletide season. Though the name Bakersville reminded one of small beautiful sloped homes filled with fair children sitting cosily by the fireplace eating warm home-baked muffins and blueberry tarts, this little Bakersville had nothing in common. The houses were anything but beautiful. The children were anything but fair. And no one even heard of muffins, leave alone blueberry tarts. What kept homes warm were not fireplaces, but constant chatter and laughter. It was as if the houses had no walls…the homes just kept blending into one another. A seamless array of matchbox houses. All of them seemed identical, nothing spectacular about them. The kinds of houses that made you feel sorry for the people inhabiting them. Poverty shines bright in every brick, and rings loud and clear in the clatter of the dishes being washed with cheap dishwashing powder.

Come Christmas eve and the children of Bakersville all came out in a single group, singing and dancing their way to each and every home. People expected to hear the familiar voices sing Merry Christmas and Happy New Year towards late evening, and cheered them with hearty applause and unfailingly, at least a one rupee coin. There were about thirty children, poor in appearance but rich in spirit. What merriment they created! The noise, the colour, the music…all of them dressed in red or white. It was the same every year. They sang the same songs, did the same dance steps…well almost! Sometimes they added the latest steps from the latest movie songs. Whatever they did, the onlookers clapped hard. The hero among them was a little boy, their regular Santa. He was short and thin and dark-skinned. Nothing you’d expect Santa to be. But every year, invariably, he would be Santa. People adored him…he had that rare ability to connect with everyone. The young and the old alike. He would shake his fake potbelly and do a funny ‘belly dance’! Till 7.45 pm he would be there doing his Santa thing. Engaging everyone, and enjoying the superstardom every single moment. After 7.45 pm, he would vanish like Cinderella did from the ball sharp by midnight. He ran home, lay down his prayer mat and did the namaz. Facing the holy Mecca, a small Santa prayed to Allah. The residents of Bakersville patiently waited for their little Santa to come back. They knew where he had gone. Did they want another Santa in the meantime? No, they did not. Christmas was not Christmas without Ashraf, the very own Santa of Bakersville.

In Bakersville, as in many places of the world, Christmas had no religion, no communal colour. All people wanted were a plum pie, good music and a jolly fat man with a potbelly, red hat and white beard. And little boys and girls like Ashraf to unify the people around them.

Photo Courtesy: Dave John

It’s time to let down everything you’ve taken up, and sit down for a while. Let the ink flow out to the paper. Let the frustration, anger and bottled-up madness spiral down and fall on the canvas. Sometimes, it’s important to listen to the voice of your heart. Not sometimes, all the time – you’d argue. Well, ask yourself: Do you? Do you listen to the voice of your heart always?

Do you chase every dream you’ve dreamt? Do you run the wild goose chase each time something catches your fancy? Do you fly over the sky like a kite unleashed? Truth is, you rarely ever do.

You take the easy way out. You fall prey to routines. As you grow older, you learn to hear yet not listen. You learn to read without actually reading. You victimize yourself when you think you’re getting carried away. Too much happiness can be bad for you, that’s what we’ve been taught. You run away when you encounter true love. You make yourself busy when you catch your mind chasing a ‘never-to-be-accomplished’ dream. You hate yourself for making castles in the air. Well, so do I.

I had been taught that no mountain is too high to climb, and no sea too deep to be crossed. But it seems life has taught me, that climbing mountains and crossing seas are jobs for the outcasts. Successful people should aim at building tall buildings with secure foundations. Faster the better. And successful people should let everyone know they are successful. Not in an obvious way, ofcourse. But in a somewhat more subtle way.

Finding happiness deep inside you and letting it be, is a pursuit for the lazy ones.

Living a life of slavery and succumbing to worldliness, is a task saved for the sensible ones.

Photo Courtesy: Greg Westfall (https://www.flickr.com/photos/imagesbywestfall/4565664949/in/photostream/)