Smile.

If a picture is worth a thousand words, this one is worth a million. My pint sized star, with her twinkling eyes and heartful smile won over the intensive care nursery when she was just a couple of days old. She went thru an ordeal tougher than her mom's. Stayed in the ICN when all of us were at home. She had a character about her, She had feelings to convey and stories to tell. Everytime I took her out of the incubator and those bright billy lights, she would open her eyes ever so slightly and give me a smile. "Mom, don't worry" she seemed to convey - "I am stronger than I appear to be"
Aarti taught me a lot in life, even when she was only hours old. I learnt from her that life is a battle that should be won with a smile. A journey that unfolds umpteen experiences - of joy, sorrow and most importantly love. She taught me what unconditional love is. When I held her for the fist time, I knew she is here to brighten my life with that smile and enrich it with a love that is beyond all words.

To Sir - With Love.

To Sir, With Love. 8/18/2006 2:37 AM
How vainly men themselves amaze
To win the palm, the oak, or bays ;
And their uncessant labors see
Crowned from some single herb or tree,
Whose short and narrow-vergèd shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid ;
While all the flowers and trees do close
To weave the garlands of repose.

These opening lines form Andrew Marvell’s poem “The Garden” stir a whirlwind of emotions after a decade of studying the poem. (I should acknowledge that do not even have an okay memory) In 1996 when I was still a teenager, working a fulltime job and trying to finish my bachelors degree in English literature, I was in for more challenges than I could handle. Though I had a penchant towards the language, the cryptic poetry and prose we had were too hard to understand without having a teacher. I never made it to a single correspondence class in my 3 year degree owing to a job that would not allow me many casual leaves.
Experiences come in a lot of disguises. This one wonderful experience that is etched deep and clear, came to me when I approached Vara Prasad Sir to teach me poetry from my second year bachelor’s program. Sir was a family friend, very well known to my father. Though he never taught me during my school days, I heard a lot about him from my older sister and her classmates. I had a very casual and close relationship with him and we used to chat on phone and talk about everything from movies to food when I met him.
So on a fateful weeknight, I went to his house with my poetry text and a notepad clueless about the most wonderful learning experience I was going to have.
He was dresses in a lungi. He wore a cross around his neck that entangled with the thread that he wore across his shoulder. His breath smelled heavily of cigarettes and he seemed to ignore me when I was talking about something. He settled on the floor and I sat in front of him giving him my poetry text. “Let’s study Andrew Marvell – I announced” giving him the opened book. He quickly scanned thru the poem and said “very well my dear,‘The garden’ it is”
He started reading the poem aloud. It made no sense to me though I could understand all the words in it. Word by word, line by line – he unfolded the meaning of the first paragraph. I was listening to him mesmerized. We finished the first three paragraphs on the first day and continued it on the following day. By the time I went to him the next day, he opened the door before I knocked. I had a feeling he was waiting for me to arrive. We settled in our usual place and started the study again. He opened a piece of paper that would hardly cover his palm. His writing was tiny – really tiny. And very artistic. He wrote the entire notes for the 9 paragraph page in that piece of paper. That too, on one side. He paused sometimes as he explained it. It looked like he was trying to remember what he was about to say. He was actually pausing to appreciate the poet’s talent. After a few seconds of silence he would say “ yenta baga rasado…..”
I walked back home that day, clutching to that piece of paper like it were a charm. Till date I have it, the physical memory tucked in my teenage treasure chest, and an emotional memory that I would one day hope to share with my offsprings. A memory so pure and clear, that it left an unmistakable mark on who I am today.
Life had changed for me that evening. An overwhelming emotion, filled with a gazillion positive feelings, An unspeakable appreciation for all the hardwork he put in to teach me the most important lesson of my life lingers in my memory lane long after many memories got buried in time.

The last time I saw sir was at my wedding. He wrote to me from Hyderabad when I sent him my wedding invitation. Jyoteeshwari teaher was battling with her life. “Each day is a precious gift from God” he wrote, explaining her health condition. If your wedding day is not the last one He’d bestow upon her, I’ll be there” he added.
My wedding took place in Hyderabad. He hugged me, placed his hand on my head, blessed me and sobbed silently.

I wrote my second year’s English paper in my Third. I never looked back at that tiny paper again to remember what he told me nor do I need to look at it again. Andrew Marvell’s genius work had been immortalized for me by a teacher who is larger than life. A teacher who gave the opportunity to learn more than what the text book taught. A teacher who taught me just one lesson – the most wonderful of it all.

Namesake

Midnight is the time when profound thoughts strike me.
Is orange the color named after orange the fruit or is it the other way round?
why is yellow not called banana or banana not called yellow then? How about apple and red???
No matter how childlish the ponderings are, they are indeed thought provoking.

Windows.

My yearning to create a better work space made me paint the office room. The room has an inaccessible wrought iron balcony that stages some fake flowering plants to add that splash of color. I tried to bring that hue in. After our thirty minute pondering over the color pallettes in the paint section, I ended up with a creamy orange shade, which looked more orange than creamy when applied to the walls. But warms colors have a thing about them and I liked the way the room turmed out. The color in the balcony tied up with the color inside but my quest for creativity prompted me to think of a border to go around the top of the wall. I asked for a few suggestions and did'nt find any strinking or challenging enough. I googled "office space wall paper borders" and came up with an exhaustive selection, but none of them pleased the discerning eye in question. A thought flashed across my mind, unconvincing in the beginning but appealing as the time passed by.
Fast forward to a four rung ladder, a bunch of talkon brushes and acrylic paint in bright hues that define windows paired with a semi seasoned hand that makes things appear a lot easier and an enthusiasm of a three year old, Bill gates' windows adorn the now colorful office space. The prime colors add the required splash and voila, the place becomes complete. The arched window with the wooden blinds and the wrought iron balcony and the microsoft windows that seem to pop on the wall stage the same thing. What is that word? color!!!

Tense.

Before my Paradigm takes word form, I really need to ponder over the Tense. Grammar "tense" that is.
Once, when I was in seventh Grade, Seshakka told me something remarkable while teaching me Algebra. "If you don't use it, it'll get rotten (she referred to my brain) just like flour goes bad after a while".
What words of wisdom? It has taken me a decade and a half to understand what she actually meant.

I notice a lot of "tense fluctuations" in my writings which never happened a year ago. Well, it took me an year to actually start writing, and the flour got bad.
Reason enough to do this writing more frequently may be I can stop if from turning even badder:-))

Fascination.

The first vision I have of her stays alive in my mind after two years and would stay there for years to come. A six pound something bundle of joy with a face so transperant that her green veins shine thru her skin. Small face the size of an orange, large eyes the size of almonds. She was as tiny as it can get and her eyes travel the length and breadth of the room aimlessly, without focus. A thick layer of hair covers her head and scantily spreads on to her forehead. Her complexion is a much coveted pink.
The icon arrives with a bang. The little soul that changes the way I look at life. The large eyes, the innocent looks, the wonderfully cute hands and feet.
She grows up wearing pink overalls, denim skorts and colorful trinkets in her wiry hair. She talks way ahead of her peers. At one, she calls me Bushulu and binds herself a big more tighter to a cord of my heart.
She is a quick learner, a prodigy a bit of sunshine, a beam of moonlight that brightens my life. I play with her, sing with her and try to be a real friend. She slowly connects to me.
She is two now, conversing and thinking sense and calling me "bushulu" with a tint of love in her tender voice. Her big eyes batter their eyelids in the amazement of talking to a fur toy and my heart skips a beat.
She is not mine, but she is mine in a strange way. A way that leads straight to some secure corner of my heart. She just needs to bat her mile long lashes, and my heart skips a beat.
Sivany the sweet lil angel that changes the life of her mom and her God mom is a subject of fascination that makes my life sweeter.

Bittersweet.

Your calls don't last as long as they are awaited.
Your talk tells me the untold.
Your chuckle reminds me of a child that knows no manupulation.
You seem to be a hero in your own right, a magic that has touched our lives.
You made your mark felt, without actually making an effort
You made hearts miss their beat, you made unknown, "unheard" of people
support you without asking them for it.
You are stupid sometimes and sometimes stubborn
You change lives, you change decisions
you create havoc and confusion.

She paints a picture about you
with vague words forming imaginarly lines
on the canvas of my mind.
I try to get her sketch!
I use some seen visions,
I imagine some unseen
I form a picture
not perfect but pretty
not pretty but pure.
My not perfect, not pretty but pure image
that speaks intellegence and spells innocence
appears before me when I hear your
sometimes confused, sometimes confident
and sometimes confusing voice.

Sometimes a pressure, sometimes a pleasure
you are like the experience of a new mother.
You come in and write another chapter in my life.
Another feeling to be felt, another bond to be built
You sometimes irritate me and sometimes amuse me
but never cease to amaze me.
You are unpredictible, I never know when you heal the wound.
I never know when you make it.

You tell me you are not as attached to me as I am to you! But You make me feel good.
May be because I acknowledge it and you don't. May be because I see the vulnerable little boy when I see you and you see a confident young man when you see yourself.

This unexpected addition to my life, this unasked attention and bondage add a shade more to the color of my heart.
I know not what it is! If it is just another of the many forms of affection, or
a flimsy tag of relationship that binds me to you. I know not if is my love for her or my love for you that reflects my feelings!

You strengthen a spirit, you weaken an emotion. You inflict a pain, you enhance a happiness. your every reaction refreshes like a breath of fresh air or leaves an uneasiness linger behind.

You say rediculous, outrageous, idotic things but you get away with them.

Your every careless word masks a feeling, your every sweet gesture unveils a truthfulness.

I fail to understand if your attraction lies in the way you are or the way I look at you. I feel like hating you, like ignoring you but I fail.


Sometimes bitter, sometimes sweet, you bring with you a whirlwind of emotions and enrich my life with another facet of love.

Meaning or less.

The cul-de-sac curls like a lazy serpent.Pegions make funny noises. Roses wither and fall on the red bark below. Kids roam about leisurely on their bykes. An occassional screech of tyres cuts thru the scilence. Majestic houses seem to fall on each other probably due to lack of support or lack of space. A woman walking a dog, a man jogging on the side walk. Trees that shake gently, tall and short, big and small. green lawns, yellow lawns, kempt lawns, unkempt lawns. The view remains the same with minor alterations. Days roll by. The arched window with the wrought iron frame unfolds a new world before me.Yes, The view remains the same but changes the way I look at it as days roll by.

trying to rhyme.

I sleep turning and tossing,
And wake up a wreck.
I make an attempt to live
Another day with a meaning.
No matter what the day brings
Or means, or gives,
I still try to live it
I still try to love it.
Words and words form a void
that I try but fail to avoid.
Empty thoughts cross my mind
Just empty thoughts, nothing refined.
I attempt to create the magic of verse
And write a limerick longer
Than four lines.
Thanks to my silly brain
That composed this silly whatever.
If not it'd have been and
I'd have called this day
Another day down the drain.

Renaissance Man

Nana was the renaissance man. He was cool enough for me even when I was fifteen. I think that is the time when I actually started realising how intriguing the man was.
I'll check with amma and update his date of birth. Nana was a very fair complected, fine looking gentleman, with silvery gray hair by the time I knew him. He was tall, and well built. His face was austre, always neatly shaven and he never grew a mustache. Amma's nose looked somuch like his, and my nose looks somuch like amma's. So I inherited the nose from him.
Nana loved music dearly, among the other things in life. Our visit to his house, was always marked with his performance on veena. He played the instrument with absolute comfort. Nana had beautiful long fingers with long nail buds, an artistic hand as Cheiro would classify in his pamistry books. The pink finger tips of his left hand became brownish black from all the playing on Veena. He was immemnsely excited about music. The mornings I spent at his place were pleasant with a promintent Carnatic singer performing on his tape recorder. when I hear M S Subbulakshmi sing "Bhavayami Raghuramam, I remember some very precious memories of my childhood spent in Nana's house.
Nana spent a lot of his money on music and Homeopathy, his other passion. His clinic was filled with "Metria Medica" volumes neatly arranged like in an Attorney's office. I once remember him telling me that he spent over one lac INR on his homeopathy books. That was a prohibitive fugure for me, and I should admit, I honestly did'nt know the number of zeros in a Lac at that time, I was that young or that bad with numbers. The figure, however convinced that this man was ellocos about his hobbies.
Nana loved and just loved animals and humor. He would narrate jokes and chuckle uncontrolably. He loved watching wild life on TV and would always used to tell all his grand children to tell him when they spot any animals on TV. He smoked a pipe for some time, but smoked cigars all the time. He once told me that he started smoking cigars when he was twelve. He had some disease and smoking cigars was the cure. (funny, right??) I used to listen to his stories with dialited eyes and utter disbelief.
Nana did a lot of cool things. He worked for a government organisation, practised Homeopathy during weeknights and weekends and learnt music with a vengance. His close friends were his veena and mridangam teachers who were his age group. He loved finger food and snacks that nani made during the afternoons. He had the sweetest tooth I had known. Nana had his flip sides too. He had an obsession for cleanliness that often made his grandchildren hate him. "No food in the bed room" he would insist. I remeber once he traced a carbon paper folded and preserved the wrong side in my english text. He would take the paper out, fold it the right side and reprimand me strongly for doing such a foolish thing. (Well I am givng out many secrets about my IQ, Lol) I definitely though he never tried to sugar coat his opinions. I appreciate that quality of his now, but back then, I though he was a wee bit grumpy.
Grumpy or handsome, artistic or funny , Nana was defintely a strong influence on me. He spoke prestine english, but the way he said "garals" for "girls" and warald for "world" always made me smile. I used to correct him sometimes. He would just smile and pat my head lovingly but he never grew out of saying "garals" and "warald"
These two pronouciations become infamous in the anals of our family history and we still lovingly remember how he pronounced them.
Nana's last years were a stark contrast to his life. After He retired form his services, He and Nani used to live in the same town. He practised homeopathy, his serious hobby for quiet sometime.
One blazing May afternoon, Nana came to my place with Nani. His shirt was'nt tucked for the first time ever. His black shoes that shone all the time were matte. He looked haggard as he stood in the entrance. That was the last healthy image I had of him, standing tall and stout, and confident.
No one discussed it but I realised that Nana lost his money in some investments and more than his money, he lost his vigor for life and sadly enough, his health. Nana stayed with us the rest of his life, for about six years. He was paralysed for a brief period and he recovered, but never completely. His meaty shouldres slowly became emaciated, his frame became sleek and his straight forward ways of expression became meek. He would sit in solitude for most of his time listening to some artist performing on AIR or reading his Metiria Medicas. It was such pity that his Homeopathy that cured all the ailments we ever had in the household, failed to cure his ailment. Probably because it was more mental than physical. Nana was emotionall, physically and fincancially dependant on his daughters and that toned down all his pride and love for life.
Nana was still the same old man at heart, he would still enjoy humor and wildlife and he read his newspaper every morning stilling in the easy chair on our side yard.
He smoked cigars and played cards in his leisure with santu and geeta. He was still meticulous about his things and never let anyone of us hadle his precious belongings.
I should dedicate numerous blogs to talk about this renaissance man. The man who loved and gave without counting. I have a lots more to say about him but for now, I should say I am one of the luckiest garals in the warald to
have had a grand dad like him.

Greenest thumb on the block.

Before I blog about the thumb, I need to blog about the thumb's owner.
Let us call her Tia.
Tia has a remarkable thing about her, that is her style of walking. she sways elegantly on the side walk, does'nt matter if she is in a track suit or a business suit, her walk always has a sharp expression and femininity to it.
Tia is all what a modern woman is! A working professional, great mom to three handsome sons and an excellent homemaker. Now we'll talk about her famous green thumb.
gardening seems to be a serious passtime for her. I was always amused by the way she made it look like cake walk. While I toiled in the backyard trying to find a perfect place for my button rose, Tia would sway in and point me a place.
"Look at that spot in the corner, that'd be perfect!" she'd exclaim, and I being one of the dummies in the "gardening for dummies" agree meekly.
Her garden advice is always right. If she aske me not to plant mums in the front yard, she does so for a reason. The plants she shared with me and planted in my backyard always thrived better than the ones my family planted.
Her backyard bustles with peaches and roses. Strawberries are picked seasonally, peach preserve is made from the outrageous yeild of her peach trees and slender white roses adorn her breakfast table most days of the week.
Her honey suckles always grow stronger and bloom better, her apples are juicier and her Dhalias are always brighter.
Tia has the greenest thumb on the block and her simple but effective style of gardening is proof. Whether it is her swaying "cat walk" or the Calla Lillies that bloom in her backyard, this woman has style that is paired with a secret spell she uses on her green friends.