Random musings of a wandering soul

Archive for the ‘dreams’ Category

Ini Aanandame!

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She sent me a message one morning, “Peramma, please pray. I’m going for an audition.” “Did your parents allow?” was my first question. “Yes, they don’t think I’ll get through,” she laughed. The next action was in reflex, dialing my sister, “Di, you did allow her?” ” She’s always wanted to be in movies, she says. Let’s see. Will decide if she gets through.”

The uncertainty continued till the last round. The debutant director had spoken to the brother in law by then. What turned it around was the other kids and their parents. Educated, from similar families. And what clinched it finally was a name – Vineeth Sreenivasan. He is the brand Tata of Malayalam film industry – trusted, ethical. The sacking of the Chairman and the controversies came later, Vineeth is anyway a brand by himself now – for his groundedness, quality and turning the ones around him into their own brands. If he has put his faith in this new guy, he has to be good, the movie had to be good, was the thought. ” Vineeth alle producer? Onnum kaanaathe cheyyumo? Athum his first venture into production,” was the general concensus.

As the kids got together and the schedule started, it was as if I was seeing a brand new version of my sister and her husband. They are the most down to earth, graceful people you would ever meet. True spiritual beings and I don’t mean it in a religious manner. The spirit of their land has infused into their souls – gentle, true, one with the nature. Their home is a haven for tired souls and bodies. Never would I have imagined they would embrace their daughter’s wild dream so whole heartedly. There were other skeptics in the family, many of them asked ” did they really allow her?” Yes, there were moments of angst, even anger. At the end of it all, they stood by her, trusted her enough to travel alone with the group, visiting her now and then. And to ignore the words of some nay sayers.

The kids came to life for us as the shoot progressed, we met a few of them in Goa. Roshan (Gautam), who has been tirelessly following his dreams, dropping out of engineering and then a course in Physics, if I remember right. He had moved onto Mumbai, on the way to becoming a successful theater artist. Yes, he had acted in two movies by then, I’d watched both and for the life of me couldn’t remember this guy. Soochimon, you will not be forgotten anytime soon, that’s for sure. Visakh (the delightful Kuppi), the one who actually held the movie from beginning to end – a mechanical engineer who had quit his job in Chennai for the movie – was a theater artist as well. Arun (Varun) my favorite, of course after the niece. His sensitive nature reflects in his eyes, so vulnerable and he doesn’t even attempt to hide it. The boy wears his heart on his sleeves. Destiny, it was for him. He was auditioned three times, apparently. Anarkkali (Darshana) the silent beauty in the movie. Her eyes speak thousand words, in poetry. In her second year of graduation, she is very clear about where her future lies. Thomas (Akshath), the quintessential cute boy next door. Innocence coupled with unstoppable energy, again doing his graduation. Siddi (Dia), the live wire in the movie, as in life. And my niece, Annu (Devika aka Tattoo mol). First one in her generation from our side of the family,  naturally our special one. I knew she wanted to be on stage, but that movies was her dream was news to me. And the director, Ganesh. He has been honing this story and script for more than three years! Along with him a slew of other debutants as well, including the musician Sachin Warrier who has added that fresh bout of liveliness and soothing melodies to the movie.

That we would watch the premiere along with her was a given. That’s when the other side , or should I say the real nature of these kids came to light. As with every generation, the elders tend to feel and say, “this generation, they neither love nor respect their elders.” And as with every generation, the kids prove the naysayers wrong. The collective excitement and anxiety was palpable. They had seen the movie, but the audience was limited to them. How would everyone react, especially their parents? Annu was even more tense, how would her amma react to the ‘scenes?’ She refused to sit next to her mother. The mother was very clear, though. “It’s a movie, isn’t it? You were acting, right?” Wise woman, my sister is.

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All of them, without a single exception had decided to watch the first day first show with their parents. Rooting for each other, hooting and howling as each scene unfolded, it was an experience of lifetime for me. The camaraderie was unbelievable. They had become friends and supporters for life. The seeds do not fall far from the tree you realize. As we met parent after parent, it was not very hard to see where the kids had inherited their values and nature from. Hats off to the parents who dared to dream and believe, along with their children. They are as much, if not more a part of this success as their children are.

As the movie came to an end, all the faces wore huge grins of success and relief. They had arrived, as individuals and as a group. ‘Team Aanadam,’ the brand was made. And it is here to stay. Three weeks hence, the movie is a roaring success. And it has just been released in the rest of India and soon to be in other parts of the world as well. As the team continues their journey, inspiring kids in colleges across Kerala, the collective euphoria is palpable. What this team has done is far more than make a movie. They have set fire to the hopes and imaginations of thousands of kids like them. Our nine old daughter said it best, “Now I really know dreams do come true. You just have to believe. Annu chechi’s did.”

We now talk of these kids as part of our family. It is Lal Jose’s words that come to mind while wishing them well. The team was officially introduced during the 100th day celebrations of ‘Jacobinte Swargaraajyam’ The entire group struggled for words, they were greenhorns, literally. And Lal Jose wished them, “may this stage fright never leave you, even as you become established actors and super stars.” That’s what I would wish for them as well.

Success, happiness, more dreams come true! While at that, may you remain grounded, always connected to your family and friends!

p.s. for those of you who ask how the movie was, who watched it? I had eyes only for my niece 🙂

* Ini Aanandame -only happiness, henceforth 

Zen and the Art of Pillion Riding

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Dreams come true, always. The best part is, sometimes it happens even if you are not longing  for it. In the small town that I grew up in, it was only a brother’s bike that a girl could hop on. Or a husband’s. In either case, the girl sat demurely, with both legs on one side, wearing a salwar or saree. Not much fun. We got to see the adventurous ones only on movie screens. Was it Priya Raman or Amala that ignited a spark, I don’t remember. Anyway, the dream was short lived and life went on to other dreams.

Many years later, I asked a colleague of mine for a lift. There is a smile on my face as I remember his answer, ” I’m on a bike, are you sure?” “The boring auditor on my bike?” he might have wondered. The crazy and often unpredictable twists and turns of life gave a poetic answer to that question, for I landed a permanent position on his bike and in his heart. The rides were short lived as we moved on to dignified seats in a red Maruti 800.

Ten years and eight four wheelers later, there was a sigh, ” I want to buy a super bike.” The answer was a surprise, he says, “What’s stopping you?”

Riding together is like living together. It takes time, to find the rhythm. First came the cult one, the Yamaha MT – 01. The macho, muscled one. A killer in looks and power, his first love and mine too. For a sedentary pack of lazybones that I was, the speedster Suzuki GSXR was beyond reach. That was for the boy that lived on inside the man’s heart. To race , on road and on tracks. Life then moved on to adventure and touring. We had ‘Triumph’-ed. The Tiger Explorer XC

Geared up, the test ride if one could say so was to home base. Bangalore to Kochi and back, in the heat of summer. We don’t take things halfway, you see.

That was more than two years ago. A few brief rides in between, it was as if life and its routine hassles had taken over. Some incidents and certain people shake you out of your reverie, reminds you that you may not have all the time in the world, for all the things you wanted to do in life. And thus started the best phase, and it goes on.

It’s the rhythm. Each bike, every rider, has one. Takes time , effort and an open mind for the pillion rider to find it. Especially for one like me, who doesn’t even ride a bicycle. Most of us girls when young, have this romantic notion of a fast paced bike, you hugging the rider tight, a beatific smile on your faces, and your long and silky hair waving along in the wind. Reality check. Life is harsh. The first shock, “Can you move a little away?” “How dare he? Where is all the love? The romance?” I was livid. It took a few hours of ride in the scorching sun for realisation to dawn. The heavy leather that covers your entire body, add the protective stuff over almost every joint, the balaclava and the helmet and then an equally heavy body on your back? Even the hulk would balk.

The first lesson – space. As in life, we need our own. Not to separate, but to enjoy the brief moments of connect. Over time you realize, as in a good marriage, an overdose of proximity can be suffocating on a ride as well. The brief touch on your knee that asks without words, “are you alright?” It says a lot, much more than a thousand and one meaningless utterings of love. Khalil Gibran must have been a rider, I’m sure. What he said of marriage , is exactly what a rider would say,

” But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.”

The seasons. They change, from mile to mile.

The Sun. He is gentle in the mornings, warming your face and waking you up. As the day goes on, it gets harsh, burns you down, scorches your throat, sucks the life giving water out of you. Short breaks, splashes of water on your face and down your throat, you are ready again. To face whatever comes along. Together.

The rains. You can either get wet or dance in it. Wasn’t it Bob Marley who said something to that effect?  Another wise one. It was on the ride back from Goa. Two and half hours of it. Glorious rain, in all forms. First, a drizzle. Then the tantalising one, on and off, a gentle downpour now, disappearing after a few minutes, only to come back then. The harsh one, from an impossible angle, like pin pricks on your body. The mighty one next. Along with the wind, threatening to topple you. Flooded roads, the gale forcing your whole body to a side, it’s a dangerous one. You can sense the rider struggling to keep his balance, slowing down to keep his rhythm, taking care his fellow rider is safe. Life. When it shakes you up, follow the lead. Move with him, this is not the time to go solo. As you ride out, you know that was one of the best phases. Wet to the core, yet lit with joy. The dance of a life time.

The wind. The life saver, the life giver. Can be a killer too, when it gets too hot to handle. Changing from moment to moment, it can soothe you, cajole you back into life or burn and scorch you. Doesn’t give you much choice, the only choice, go with it. Ride it out, without complaints. Because, the best is yet to be.

The curves. Season, you ask? Oh girl, you just have no clue, I say. Have you taken that bypass from Salem to Coimbatore? The one that goes over the highway? The sharp curve on that? That was my first one. Next best thing to being an eagle, its like soaring in the high skies. Wings steady and strong, floating in the wind. Some think they are dangerous, it’s all how you take it, is all I can say. Perfect moments of togetherness, two as one, just space and rhythm. It’s in you, to turn it into a graceful dance. Or not. The most dangerous moments, they can be the best of all. Be in sync and make it. Go alone and break it.

Many a ride and more curves later, I realize riding pillion is like Tao. Let go. Go with the flow. Follow the wind. Just be.

And, enjoy the curves. Better still, live for them!

Finding Fireflies

imageAnother lazy Sunday evening in Bangalore, the place that is now home. We were watching ‘Queen’ for the umpteenth time when power went off. The curtains were not drawn, it was pitch dark for a moment. Lights came back almost instantly, rest of the family promptly went back to Rani and her drunken antics. Not me, I had travelled miles by then. More than six hundred kilometers away. Where the moon throws her silver anklets into the river and she smiles coyly in return, flowing gracefully, like the languorous moves of a Mohiniyattam dancer.

Is it when you cannot have something anymore, that you yearn for it endlessly? In moments of ecstatic happiness and soul breaking sadness, I go home. In my mind and spirit. To Kavalam, to those days that are gone forever. The house wears a forlorn look, like that of a mother who longs for her kids who are far away. My home, where I go in search for my soul as it keeps wandering back. It just refuses to let go.
Our grandfather must have longed to be a school teacher. That’s how he built his home, one long line of rooms, with an endless veranda that went around. With doors in the front and back and endless windows. Not the tiniest bit of sunlight nor the gentlest breeze could escape, they went in and out the whole day. Nights were special. And those hours of power cuts, official and unofficial. One tiny candle shedding its light in the sitting room, we would all gather on the veranda, one of us would be walking up and down the yard. Talking about nothing in particular, or something serious.

And those silences in between. They came creeping in with the sound of the crickets, gently wafting in with the aroma of tender mango flowers. The rustle of the coconut leaves and the thud of falling mangoes now and then, the scary howl of wind and an owl here and there, sometimes the satisfied grunt of the cows from their shed as they stirred in their half sleep, those were the lullabies that would lead us into half stupor. It was on one of those evenings that darkness totally engulfed me.

The night was pitch dark, unusual even for a village where the only public lights were those blinking ones mounted on a tree trunk. The leaves were still, the river lay placid. Even the fishermen were silent, their boats just floating along, the oars gliding smoothly through the water. Going through a particularly difficult time in life, the darkness was seeping into my soul as well. As I lay supine on the thatched mat, my eyes slowly drifted beyond the yard. From the silhouettes of the trees, up above the coconut trees, searching for some light within and out, my glance turned, as though guided by a divine force, to a group of trees that grew up together and were the best of friends even in their old age. One tiny light among the branches, it slowly spread and split into hundreds and then thousands, as if the stars that went hiding from the sky that night had come down to meet me. To lift me up, to show me the path, to remind me that even a tiny star can give solace to a wounded soul.

And that it is in our darkest hours that we see the magic of fireflies.

 

picture courtesy : fireflyexperience.org

Still You?

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“There are no coincidences in life, only connections,” said a friend of mine. The strangest, or should I say the most magical thing is, when you actually look deep, you start finding connections everywhere, in almost everything. A stray thought that flits in and out of your mindsuddenly springs out of a page that you are reading. And your face breaks out into a smile of acknowledgement. You flip through another book, something similar pops out and the smile widens. You start wondering what is it that made you pick up these books at random? It was not pre planned for sure. Is it your sub conscious mind or is it a miraculous force that was working behind the scenes? The second, I always believe it is the second. And some things are better left unexplained, just to be enjoyed in serenity.

Books have always been my lifeline, the one friend who has stood by me through thick and thin. But me? I am a born infidel. Three at a time is the bare minimum. One for each mood, to suit the levels of nonsense that I have to put up with, traversing this never ending and forever surprising journey called life. There is no method as to why certain books are chosen, but I always end up finding some connection or the other. If not in the genre or theme, certainly in some stray thoughts that are thrown in between.

It is only in a rare instance that I admit the reality of growing old. The nagging fears lay suppressed. And the biggest of those fears are being dependent on someone, whether it is emotionally, physically or financially. At the same time, I do acknowledge that this might be inevitable some day. At least the physical part, even the emotional one. And it must be the fear that kept me away from ‘Still Alice’ for so long. An exceptionally brilliant Harvard professor, Alice Howland, is diagnosed with early onset of Alzheimer’s. As she thinks about how this is going to affect her life, her thoughts naturally stray towards what is it that she really wants now.

“Accepting the fact that she did indeed have Alzheimer’s, that she could only bank on two unacceptably effective drugs available to treat it, and that she couldn’t trade any of this in for some other, curable disease, what did she want? Assuming the in vitro procedure worked, she wanted to live to hold Anna’s baby and know it was her grandchild. She wanted to see Lydia act in something she was proud of. She wanted to see Tom fall in love. She wanted one more sabbatical year with John. She wanted to read every book she could before she could no longer read.

She laughed a little, surprised at what she’d just revealed to herself. Nowhere in that list was there anything about linguistics, teaching, or Harvard. She ate her last bite of cone. She wanted more sunny, seventy-degree days and ice-cream cones.”

Strangely familiar, isn’t it? Almost all of us spend most of our time on work, whether at home or elsewhere. It is but natural that majority of our thoughts revolve around it. Nothing wrong there, one need to make a living. But does it turn into our life, making us forget what really matters? Do we need a catastrophe to happen to open our eyes, finally?

That reminded me of Ricardo Semler. A Brazilian ‘Maverick,’ his company, Semco, runs on revolutionary ideas. A place where team members interview potential bosses, where salaries are decided by the employees, where the workers decide their working time and vacations and where the CEO gets no preferential treatment. Sounds totally unbelievable, right? That was my exact thoughts when I read his book around 18 years ago. I used to wonder how sustainable it could be. The thought lingered on and off all these years, until listening to this TED talk a few months ago. The organization is indeed doing well, the man has almost taken his hands off from there and moved on to better pastures like catching them young. But, what struck me was the first few minutes of his talk about his ‘terminal days.’ No, he is not terminally ill, at least not yet. He acknowledges the fact that it is something that could really happen, given his family history of melanoma.

If we were told we had, say six months to,live, what would we do? Think hard. That’s exactly what he did. And he now takes time out, intentionally, to do exactly those things. Why wait to be told you are going to die? Or, worse still, die without being given a chance to know that you were going to?

Most of us are ordinary human beings, fighting our daily challenges, getting immersed in the trials and tribulations before we move on to a better place, hopefully. Not all of us can go climb Mount Everest or do bungee jumping in Amazon. But we can surely take time out to visit that roadside dhaba that you always pass by and wanted to stop at. Or wear that sexy dress that you’ve been saving for a special occasion. Or take out that perfectly made shell shaped soap that has been waiting for years for a special guest.

So go ahead, open that cupboard, reach into its dark recess, caress that bottle of Port Wine that your friend gifted you two years ago, pop that cork open, pour into lovingly into that goblet, tilt it up and inhale the heady aroma, sip and slowly swirl, let it touch and awaken the taste buds all across your now awakening mouth, let the fire seep down the throat and then engulf your heart. Sit back and lay your head on that silken cushion. Close your eyes, let the mellowness take you over. Life is totally worth it. Those special moments. Go make them.

What if you had only a few days left on this earth? What would you do?

Why not do it when you are still you?

 

 

Going Solo : 7 Days of Solitude – Part 1

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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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Blame it all on that Spanish Nun

joe“I’m considered a difficult girl. I have a reputation for needing to be told a good reason to do something before I do it.” Tulsi’s words in Elizabeth Gilbert’s ‘Eat Pray Love’ had me burst out laughing. The words sounded exactly like an echo from long ago. Not that much has changed over the years, except the fact that now I try to find my own answers.

Ours is a very traditional Kerala Catholic family. Life stories of saints were the fairy tales that our grandmothers brought us up with. Sins, mortal and venial were fed into our brains right from childhood. The nuns in the Sunday school only aggravated the guilt. The picture of God that was projected was of an angel if we were good, who would transform to an ogre the moment we did something bad. Well, you know how most kids are. From the time we woke up in the morning till the young heads were dumped on to the pillows, we went on sinning, and how!

Girls had it worse than boys, after all we had to protect our chastity even at the cost of our lives. Each of us were expected to be a Maria Goretti, forgiving our Alessandros as we lay on our death beds. Talking about chastity, it does resemble the Malayalam equivalent ‘chaarithryam’, doesn’t it? Anyway, that’s besides the point. As a young girl, it was pretty easy to gobble up whatever was spoon fed to us. The trouble started as I reached the age where ‘hormones get into my brains.’ By then, Enid Blyton had given her way graciously to nymphs in Mills & Boon novels. On one side was the yearnings and longings that seemed natural and guilty at the same time and on the other, this picture of a God with a stick in his hands ready to push me into the eternal flames of a hell hole.

Being an obedient child (ahem, ahem) did not stop me from questioning. If it was God who made us, why didn’t He stop us from doing bad things, why couldn’t He stop all the evil, why all the suffering and pain? There was something in me that refused to believe in this horrible giant. My favorite picture of Jesus was of him surrounded by children. The loving smile on his face and the mischievous look in his eyes was proof enough. But then, what is etched with a sharp tool on to your brains when you were of an impressionable age is very hard to scrub off. That is when my father brought home this book. The author was a priest and the brother of a family friend who was incidentally my professor as well. Most of the priests that I had known till then were reflections of those nuns from Sunday schools. But the title, ‘You Surprised Me’ made me curious.

For a sixteen year old who had more questions than answers in her mind, the ‘Contents’ was like a gold mine. It was as if someone had plucked my thoughts straight from contentmy brain, mind and soul, churned it somewhere and came out with the exact answers that I was looking for. ‘The Mystery of My Body’ said,

“I want to talk to You about something

that I cannot ignore or entirely remake – my body.

My body has been a source of pleasure and pain,

of worry and pride,

a source of embarrassment and thrills.”

How could a priest know all this, I wondered. Till then , I was sure of being punished if the daily prayers were forgotten. And here  he was telling me,

“I remind myself

that Your first love

is not prayer, but our good.

We are the center of your concern,

the reason for religion and worship,

these weak human beings You have chosen to love.”

I had found my personal God, my best friend, with whom

” I can just be myself, without ceremony or pretense.

I can relax, I feel accepted,

and I know whatever I say interests you.”

The doors opened wide,  and faith was never the same again. I shared my darkest secrets with him, fought with him when angry, bawled my eyes out when hurt, cried when I was deliriously happy,  I could feel the calming presence every single time. Over the years, I have learned to share my thoughts, angst, dreams and hopes and then let go. I have been taught not to worry too much about anything, accept things as they are and take things as they come, one day at a time. There is no fixed time for these conversations, and it is always from the heart. Like a true friend, he gives me a nudge  now and then whenever I’ve been away for too long.

Call me irrational, impractical or whatever you may. I have found peace, solace and joy in a friend who is with me throughout, who resided not in a church, but in my heart or somewhere close by, who listens to me without judging and pats my shoulder each time I rave, rant and shout, telling me softly, “this too shall pass.”

Now, what about that Spanish nun, you ask? Ah! you will have to wait for my next post to know about her 🙂

She helped me lie ;)

treeEnid Blyton made me lie. At least that’s what I used to think. That was the age when, forget about knowing what it is, I didn’t even know how to spell technology. Even books were not freely available as it is today. We had to wait eagerly for that one day a month, when books would be issued from the school library. Enid Blyton was the only choice available to kids our age.

Growing up with four younger siblings, I was pretty sure that some royal family somewhere had lost their child who appeared mysteriously at my parents’ doorstep. And the sweet souls that they were, adopted me and were bringing me up as their first born. Waiting for my ‘real’ parents to come in search, one particular book fell into my hands. The name is long forgotten, it must have been one of theAdventurous  Four’ series where this young prince gets lost, the kids rescue him, the king flies down in a plane of gold or something of that sort, and lo and behold, my alternate identity was born.

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Parentous  is a meeting place for all who are interested in sharing their thoughts, experiences and opinions on anything and everything related to kids, parents and family. Whether you are a parent or not doesn’t matter. Articles on varied topics are posted every day, contributed by selected writers. You can find my posts there twice a month :)