Random musings of a wandering soul

Posts tagged ‘Life’

The Last Letter

Our family was never ‘photographic.’ Search high and low, far and wide, it is next to impossible to find pictures of us from childhood. Now that I think about it, we have seen more pictures of our mother as a kid than  those of the five of us put together. Did my parents have an aversion to studios, I wonder. Or maybe they just didn’t have the time, in between bringing up the brood.

There were letters galore, though. Staying in the small town of Alleppey, a grandmother in the nearby village of Kavalam and a set of grandparents in neighbouring village of Pulincunnu, the letters were mostly triangular. I do remember my father’s strong, slanted handwriting, those were official writings in blue black Chelpark ink, though. The blue inland letters were always feminine. The neat and tidy, tiny words from Kavalam and the large, rounded words, as perfect as her fluffy palappams, from Pulincunnu. Telephones were rare and letters were the only form of communication, unless someone visited. Yes, I was reared in pre historic times 🙂

We were forced into this habit as we grew up. As the eldest in both sides of the family, the onus of keeping this tripartite communication alive slowly fell on me. And it would be a lie if I told you I didn’t enjoy it. We were masters of space management, the two grandmothers and me. We would first take up all the space in the three ‘pages’ of the inland, then write on the margins , sometimes even in the space provided for the return address. Born story tellers, we were. My paternal grandmother would even add some sentences in English and would remind us from time to time with a twinkle in her eyes, “I was taught by European nuns, unlike the less fortunate you.”

Count of coconuts, accounts of activities in the yard, the state of mangoes that year, the feasts in the church, maids come and gone, family news of old retainers, births, weddings and deaths, visits from relatives – letters from the paternal side was more in the nature of a statement of account – what came in and what went out. The maternal ones were, well, more maternal in nature. Rounds of how each member of the family was faring, each of us kids asked for by name, news of cows giving birth along the women in the family who followed suit, chickens and ducklings hatched and snatched by eagles and crows, the letters were more about what grew and did not. As holidays neared, we would wait eagerly to know who would be coming when to take us home. For, home was never the house we stayed in ten months round the year. Home was always where the heart was – split between two villages.

When did we as siblings start writing to each other? The first ones would definitely have been from me, the first one to leave the pack to far away Ernakulam. Who did what in the hostel, which audit I was on, which clients provided the best food for free, there was nothing that the family did not know of. And in return, I continued to get news of what was happening back in the two villages, the parents had shifted back to Kavalam by then. The triangle turned into a square as another corner was added. One of the sisters got married off to the till then uncharetered territory of northern Kerala.

It was three years after her marriage that we lost one of us. There were hardly any pictures to remember her by, not that any of us needed it. Bonds of heart are far stronger than the most beautiful of pictures, we have realised since then, as we lost our mother a few years later. There are moments though, when we long for a touch, a word or two in their voices, something, anything, that was tangible. Not to remember them,   just to feel their presence, even if it was for a few ephemeral moments.

There are some books that are my favourites. They have a strange habit of disappearing at frequent and infrequent intervals. And they reappear months , sometimes years later, right in time when I need them. Only when I need them. It was a prayer book this time, an unusual one. The one that was my solace in my years of questioning God, those years of searching for the meaning of everything. Had it gone missing, or was it that I’d forgotten about it? I don’t remember. But it was definitely one of those days, when the yearning was too strong, the longing too difficult to get over, that it resurfaced. Surprising me. With a letter, the last one she’d written to me. Maybe the last one she’d written to anyone.

It’s 21 years today, since the then 21 year old wrote it.

What would we remember each other by, I wonder. Facebook posts, Instagram pictures, long forgotten Tweets? And I shudder.

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Chasing Ducks

Books are such wondrous beings. On one page you are enjoying  your evening with a nomadic family on the Mongolian steppes, watching the matriarch firing away orders to the family, in style. Come the next page, you are suddenly transported back to your childhood.

“There were scenes of hysterics as the little children were tasked with rounding up the most mischievous goats. They sprinted after the animals, diving to catch whatever body part they could lay a hand on, whether it be the leg, ears, or even tail, but often ended up facedown in the dust. When one particularly large and courageous goat made a break for the open steppe beyond camp, one of the boys, probably no older than ten, swung onto a horseback and, with his chest pushed out like a little man’s, went galloping off with a shriek.”

Rewind to an era that sound pre historic to my kids who haven’t seen even a stalk of rice. When there were no supermarkets and you had to run behind a hen to have a chicken dish for lunch. And ducks.

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Watching chickens hatching was one of the favourite pastimes of summer holidays. And the ducklings. The mother ducks are an active lot. Not for them, the days of sitting idle on top of a group of dumb looking eggs. And they needed the daily frolic in water. A wet body on top of a growing baby inside a shell? That would have been a sure shot recipe for disaster. As the shell broke, the chickens looked cute, covered in tiny, soft feathers. The ducklings were weird.

My memory deserts me here. When did the surrogate mother retreat and the real one take over? What I do rememeber is the joyous jump of ducklings into water. Mother first and the kids after her.

Duck roast was a delicacy, reserved for special occasions. Especially my grandmother’s quite famous whole duck roast. Boiled potatoes, mashed and mixed with spices stuffed into the tummy that would now be emptied of all the gory stuff like intestines and gizzard. More about that in another post. The whole process deserves a story by itself.

While the hens would be left to wander around by themselves, ducks were always cooped up. Except in the evenings. We were never a part of the letting out. Rounding them up in the evening was the real adventure. Hens are an odedient lot, except for a stray one. They seem to know by instinct when the time came. Obediently they would walk into the hen house, one after another. A particularly rebellious one would perch itself on a tree branch and refuse to come down. No amount of coaxing, cajoling or even threats would make them budge. Some days, they would just be left to their own devices, out of sheer exhaustion on the part of the chasers.

The ducks.  ‘Taking to water like a duck,’ is not an empty idiom, you realize. The first few moments after the door of the pen was opened was of confusion. Then the excitement would begin. Freedom, they seemed to shout. Skuttling across on their webbed feet, their wings opened out, waddle had a different meaning. It was a cross between a run and flight. The last leg was the best. They took flight at the last moment, with a loud quack of sheer joy and abandon. For a few brief moments they would be flying like other birds, before the weight of their bodies made them land in water with a loud thud and splash.

Rounding them up a few hours later was another story altogether. Think of a kid having the time of her life with her friends in a park. And telling them time is up. Oh, the horror of it! First, it’s a gentle shoo, shoo. Then the shout, and ultimately a whack on their bottom with a bamboo pole. We had our tactics too. First we would place ourselves at strategic locations, then the chase would start. There never was a gentle moment, just the sheer adventure of it all.

Rebels were everywhere. A couple would escape our watchful eyes and escape. Off they would go, swimming madly across the canal. And follow we would. Helpers were all around, on the way. They would join the chase. Someone who had been taking a peaceful bath would suddenly be thrown out of their reverie by the cackling ducks racing through the water and equally boisterous kids chasing them over the shore. Who would win was always a moot point. Their fate was sealed the moment the tiny beaks forced their way out of their shells.

Looking back, I realize how everything was taken for granted. Life had its natural course whether it was for us kids or the ducks we chased. Questions were rare. That’s the way things were, life was. The tiny embryos took warmth from a stranger, found their way out of the shells, were fed and then would find their own feed, laid eggs that were taken away and would finally end up, spiced and cooked, on random dining tables. Not one of us questioned why they were killed. We just waited, longing for bits and pieces of those perfectly browned whole duck roast. Another story, for another day.

 

p.s.

(i) the quote is from ‘On the trail of Genghis Khan’ by Tim Cope

(ii) picture courtesy google images 

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?