Random musings of a wandering soul

Originally posted on Reminiscing the Reads:

Infidel

(Disclaimer : Even if I write page after page for weeks, it would be difficult to cover the varied emotions and thoughts that still keeps going through my mind. This is a humble attempt to prod you to take this up and read.)

Those eyes seemed to challenge me from the bookshelf for more than a year. “Come pick me up, if you dare,” she taunted each time I picked it up. Her lips curled into a cynical smile as I kept it back, once again. I pretended that I was not yet ready, that the time to listen to her story had not come, yet. For I knew, she would demand undivided attention once she started her tale. And then, when that stare became unbearable, I picked it up again and flipped it open.

“Who are you?”

“I am Ayaan, the daughter of Hirsi, the son of Magan.”

So started…

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“What?”

A look of total disbelief was the inevitable first reaction.

“Oh, you must be meeting your blog friends there,” so said those who know about this space.
“Meeting friends there?” asked a few.
“You must be joking,” said the others.
Patience has never been one of my virtues. I took the pain, nevertheless. As if explaining to a young child, ” Yes, you heard right. I am taking a vacation in Himachal. A week. All alone. No family. No friends.”
The reactions were quite interesting. Many of them, mostly the guys, looked at me as though I’d gone totally crazy. The women folk had a twinge of longing in their eyes as they told me, “I’ve always dreamed of something like this…….some day….”

Years ago….

The five year old girl sat staring out into the dark. The bus went up the winding roads, the scent of the strong breeze on her face was strange and new. The passing silhouettes were tall and imposing. As someone pulled down the dirty green shutters of the rickety old bus,the folds reminded her of the paper fans that she made with her sisters back home. There was a sudden feeling of loss, as if something that she loved deeply was denied to her, all of a sudden, without any reason. The next thing she remembers is waking up to hills all around. She could not understand the feeling of joy and the unexplainable heaviness in her heart. All she wanted to do was run up one of those fairway hills and wander around the woods like a carefree butterfly. As she returned to her home in the plains, it was as if she had left her very soul behind.  That day, the wind in the hills carried a few seeds in their wings, that of a lifetime longing.

Maybe it was something to do with the place that I grew up in. Wherever you turned to, it was water all around. Like life, the terrain was also flat,  it went on in the same manner, with no particular ups and downs.  There were visits to,the hills after that, the fascination only grew, transforming to an insatiable thirst, to be one among the clouds, to cavort around the hills, to feel its highs and lows, to inhale and infuse the scent into my soul and very being. Even after traversing up and down the Western Ghats, there was a feeling of not being complete, as if the soul was still searching for something that was lost long ago,  even though I couldn’t exactly put my finger on what I was searching for.

Somewhere in the not so adventurous school years, the mighty Himalayas found its way in. Like any another ambitious school kid, first it was Mount Everest that I wanted to conquer. As  lazy as I was even back then, that dream was shelved even before it grew wings. The highest peak was too much trouble. That was when the fragrance from the Valley of Flowers  seeped in. And there was no looking back. It’s another matter that the dream remained just that, for years.

I”m sure Paulo Coelho appropriated the thought from somewhere else. But that didn’t stop me from waiting for the conspiracy to come true – that of wanting something so badly that the Universe is forced to conspire. It took many years and a few jobs in between for the elements to join forces and present two whole weeks before me. No job. Nothing to be unduly worried about. It was as if the perfect opportunity dropped by itself, straight into my lap.

Unseen forces are always at work behind the scenes, don’t you think? Else, why would a friend decide to go to, of all places, Himachal Pradesh, and that too, a lovely place so unpretentiously named ‘Raju Bharti Guest House’?  He is a wandering soul himself, so caught on immediately as I voiced my plans. The winds were blowing this way, definitely. The place , which is normally booked months in advance  was free when I wanted. Even Vayu Bhagwan was kind , tickets available at half the normal price and that too, just for the two flights that I was looking at. My moment had arrived, definitely.image

 

It’s not for nothing that certain people in our lives are called the better halves. For, more often that not, they are far better at making us believe that we are capable of things beyond our belief. Yes, I had travelled alone before (mostly on work), knew the kids would be safe and sound, and there would be no tsunamis or earthquakes if I let go for a week. Still, there is this nagging guilt that is the birthright of many a woman like me, that it is not right to leave the family behind, to do something just for yourself, by yourself. The logical brain says, ‘bah! Humbug!’ ,  while the guilt inducing emotional side tries to nag, “should I ?” The practical man just said, “Go”.

And that is just what I did. Go. 7 days. Alone. No friends. No family.

Was it easy? Not initially. To get out of the comfort zone and do something out of the ordinary is not easy. However brave or unconventional others think you are. Some of the initial excitement turned into anxiety as the day approached. Chandigarh was a totally new place. There was no one or no where that I knew in the city. And I had to spend 8 hours there and catch an over night bus. Well, have I ever told you that angels do exist ? One phone call was all it took and there was a ready made family waiting for me there. Ruchira, whatever you might say, what you did  is something I can never thank you enough for.

Yes, there is an element of uncertainty at each step. What if I miss the connecting flight? What if I reach there in the middle of the night? What if the taxi driver is a criminal? What if the other people at the home stay is horrible? What if the place itself is not as I expected it to be? What if I meet with an accident? The what ifs are endless and can kill you, but only if you allow it a free reign.

The place was all mine for the first few days, another group that had made reservations cancelled at the last moment. Solitude was what  I asked for and that was exactly what Was given to me. I went on a short walk , a medium trek and a slightly harder one, all alone. There was anxiety, I have to admit. It was like learning to walk, in a sense. I had to stop for breath after every ten steps, but walk I did. And reached the end. And then walked all the way back. Trekked uphill, over narrow mountain paths, not a single soul around, in absolute wilderness. Yes, I was scared, more than a bit. But I knew I had to do it, for myself. I had to believe that this old bag of creaky bones still had something of the old spirit left in it. And believe I did. And was proved right. The body was weary in the end, but the spirit was soaring and the soul , triumphant.

“Didn’t you get bored?” many asked on my return. Not for a moment. Honestly. But then, I’ve always been a dreamer, who could spend hours by a river doing nothing. Wander around aimlessly, with nay a thought or worry in the world. And switch off from the rest of the world, easily. So there I was , waking up before six everyday, listening to the birds chirping around, talking back to the stream gushing by in all the excitement of youth, biting into juicy green apples straight off the tree, sitting by the river bed for hours, reading, writing, dreaming, even  dozing off now and then.

“What about my family?” you ask? The other half says I would have gone anyway, irrespective of his opinions. Maybe. But, the fact that he gave that push right from the moment I uttered “shall I ?” mattered, quite a lot. He did not have an iota of doubt, even if he had, loved me enough not to show it. And that glint of pride that I see in his eyes is proof enough, not that there is need for any proof. Without him here, I wouldn’t have done it, with such a sense of abandon. As for the kids, son seemed happy that there wouldn’t be anyone breathing down his neck for a week, especially with exams looming around the horizon. The drama queen that the daughter is, she tried her usual “I’ll miss you so much” routine and was duly silenced by the father, “it’s amma’s dream. Let’s her go and enjoy”. Thank God for kindred souls that turn into better halves.

Looking back, the trip and especially the trek feels like a dream.  Son asks half in earnest and half jokingly, “but amma, why did you have to go all the way to Himalayas for a walk?” My answer is instant and from the heart, “it was my dream.” Hopefully, that is what will remain in their young minds. That you could have dreams, and make them come true. Even mothers. Especially mothers.

 

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Originally posted on Reminiscing the Reads:

aliceDo you remember that exhilarating feeling when you meet someone and instantly feel connected? Your thoughts seem to be similar, you react to things the same way, you even seem to complete each other’s sentences and you decide, at last, I’ve found someone who totally gets me. Then, you get to know more of each other and a sense of foreboding starts creeping up, the sixth sense that seldom goes wrong tries to warn you that what you see may not be what you get. And ultimately, a sense of resignation, a foreboding feeling of being fooled does you in. That’s exactly what happened to me with this book.

Alice Steinbach, a Pulitzer prize winning journalist had always dreamed about chucking it all and seeking out an unencumbered life free of plans and schedules, at least temporarily. And she does just that, her sons having moved out and she herself…

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doe eyes‘Doe eyes’, you call her. But, have you really looked into it, ever listened to what it tries to tell you? Have you seen one that is caught in light at night? You are  not the jungle type, you say? Oh, don’t worry. Just look around. Who said jungle is in the wild? But then, do we even know what wild is any more?

See that crowd? Push your way in, and look around. Do you see those frightened eyes? Yes, that is what I was asking you about. She is still a baby. What do you call a baby doe? A princess? Yes, that would be apt. For, princesses rarely come out of fairy tales these days. But then, let us not digress. Can you see how she squirms, as if caught in a trap? Why doesn’t she fight, you ask? Well, she still doesn’t know what is it that she has to fight against, or whom.  She did not ask for the fight, heck, she doesn’t even want to fight. Was just going about her way, when a pair of horns stopped her . She doesn’t know yet… why stags have horns and why they try to poke her.

Wait, are you jumping out? Can’t stand the crowd, you say? Neither can she. She doesn’t have a choice, though. For she is not a stag. And she doesn’t have horns.

It’s getting dark out there. The eyes start getting wider, the horns are getting closer. Why doesn’t she fight, you ask again. You see, she was taught not to. Would grow horns, she was told. Back then, she was a princess, and princesses were supposed to have crowns of diamonds, not horns. Hardly her fault, you know.

You’ve seen some of them fight, you say? You are right, my friend. Horns rammed inside, some of them do, really.

Now tell me, do you know what they were fighting for and against? No? I will tell you.  Or better still, ask one of her. Even better, ask a few. One will say, against fatigue. Another, against prejudice. Yet another, expectations. And the other, against the pain that is killing her, from dawn to dusk. The reasons  are aplenty. But, there is one that binds them, almost all of them. The fight is ‘for’ something, there they are one. For their princesses, princes too. That they may not have to fight, some day. That they are not shorn off their tiaras and crowns. That their staff is used to guide, not rule.

Yes, they fight, with their tooth and sharp nails. For, they do not have horns, you see.

What about those horns that battle alongside the  eyes, you ask? Oh, them? Poor things. They end up being called hornless. In spite of the strongest ones you might have seen, ever.

The princesses, and what of their doe eyes, wouldn’t you want to know? I will tell you, irrespective. Some of them burned with a fire strong enough to  singe the tips of a few horns.  Then got charred in the process. A few of them folded the lids in, never to open again. And the mass, you cannot miss them, even if you don’t see, look or whatever. Those are the ones that you find all around, resigned, helpless. Even the brightest light fails to light them up. For, they grew up, and got to know. Only in fairy tales, princesses turn into queens, you see.

What of her kin, the horned ones, you now ask? Aren’t they supposed to protect her? The brothers – the real and the rakhi ones?

Neither does she ask, nor  expect them to , anymore.

For, she knows by now.

That they are busy….building statues

 

(p.s – title courtesy my favorite film maker, the inimitable Padmarajan)

Originally posted on Reminiscing the Reads:

rainThese days it is a rare miracle to get the time, temperament and the right kind of book to read for hours at a stretch and finish it in one go. As you get to explore more and more authors and genres, you realize, with some sadness, that it is getting increasingly difficult to satisfy the growing soul that is you. So you flit from one book to another, trying to find that magic that once was there in every story that you read. You long for that time when each author was fairy god mother  or father as the case maybe, with a bottom less hat from which tale after enchanted tale was pulled out.

Then, out of the blue, like a long lost rainbow, you meet authors like Tan Twan Eng, who ensnare you with the lyrical quality of their writing, sears you to the core with the…

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Originally posted on Reminiscing the Reads:

emptyBooks signed by authors, I have a few. But a book launch? Never.

So when V, a good friend, sent out an invite, I was excited. For more than one reason. V is a born raconteur and his sense of humor is truly out of this world. So by law of genesis or whatever, his brother had to be a chip off the young block, I presumed. And rightly so, I was to find out.

RM Rajgopal, the author wrote these stories ‘while pursuing a hectic career,’ says the introduction in the book. And the author corroborates it when he says tongue-in-cheek that he has a lot to thank Indian Airlines for the number of delayed flights, most of these stories were written either while waiting at the airport or while on a flight. Apparently he used to carry and notebook and pen with him, always. That he must have…

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Originally posted on Reminiscing the Reads:

kateWhen I was carrying our first born, husband used to see pregnant women everywhere. It happens all the time doesn’t it? When the mind is focused on something, consciously or sub consciously, it seem to attract relevant experiences, thoughts and people. Or is it that we become more mindful and aware that we actually start making sense of what is around us? Stories, real life and made up, discussions, real and virtual, all tend to rekindle those once burning embers. As if that was not enough, this  book found its way and added fuel to the already smouldering ashes.

The questions are what every woman would have asked herself at least once in her life. Unless of course, she is single and childless. Is it worth it? What about me? My dreams? Do I even have a choice? Are child bearing and rearing my responsibilities alone? What if I reset…

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