The Feeling

The feeling. That describes indescribable. That gushes past you like an unsuspected whiff of breeze. Reading a sentence that makes you see magic in words. Of how weaving of phrases can make you feel special and give you a strange feeling of light-headedness. Of finding a comrade who gets the same feeling as you just by seeing those turns of phrases.  
Fleeting inspiration from black and white photographs. From geometry in paintings. From seeing the colours of a Kathakali dancer. Reading a poem about God’s own country. Seeing in your head the green fields and white clothes, reflection of sunsets on still waters. 
Standing by the waves lost in your thoughts. Feeling the icy cold curl around your toes and the softness of the foam tricking back onto the horizon. Finding peace amidst bustling noise by thinking of the horizon. An unexpected sunset streaking the sky orange and making you forget the humidity. Catching the moon in between the branches of a tree. 
Listening to a song that makes you close your eyes and float on the notes. Synchronising. Watching a simple movie that makes you believe in love. Getting that pleasant feeling of anticipation and absorbing the emotions of the characters.

Looking at books all around you and wishing you had nothing else to do but soak in the magic of the place called the library. 

Inspiration that you wish you can grab by the horns and never let go.

Mosaic Tiles and mismatched curtains : Part 2

Sitting around 350 kilometres from the house, it feels just around the corner: It has not yet quite sunk in that the house will never be the same again. I’ve read somewhere about how surprising it is that so much memory is built around things unnoticed at the time. This cannot be truer of No.20, Narayanappa Layout.

Some people need not do great things to be great, it is what they didn’t do that makes them so great. My grandmother belonged in this category. She would remain in the house making amazing vethai kozhambu and rasam, watch predictable TV serials with great enjoyment , pray at the little tulsi turning three circles with the unshaken faith , and go about daily business , thinking good of everything and praying for everyone.

Paati existed in a simpler world of her own, one where words like cynical and sarcastic had no place in her dictionary, one where a once in half-a-decade trip to a nearby temple town took care of the word ‘holiday’, one where relatives were not odd somebodys you saw at a wedding and discussed how many years it was since you last met, but one where relatives were living breathing creatures who were part of your daily life in a bigger way than the internet is for us today.

Which is really saying something, and which is why the scores of relatives who visited us shared with us genuine stories of Paati, about how she touched each of their lives in some small way. Her culinary skills were much talked about- even the third cousins sister-in-law’s neighbour seemed to have a good word for Paati’s beans kari and keerai – the magic she did to the spinach to make it so green and so light and yet so very flavoursome is something that has probably followed her and gone away.  Everybody was overcome with good words about the fragile person who went about her whole life putting others in front of her and somewhere along the way, forgot to  occasionally put herself first.

Paati too had a good word for everyone, she would pity and empathise with everyone from the helper’s errant son who would occasionally turn up drunk offering to mend pipes, to an insignificant TV actress who failed to catch a break, to a random kid troubled with homework. She never judged, and never gossiped, and never failed to praise even a visiting grand niece’s off-key singing, declaring it good enough for the radio, not because she believed in empty praises but because she very wholeheartedly believed everyone had something great in them and wanted everyone to come up in life. She wouldn’t have distinguished between an Olympic medal and an inter-school lemon-and-spoon race victory, and in her own sweetly naive way, this helped her keep her sanity in this world, one so unfit for someone so pure.

Paati may not have won great races or invented great things, but in a manner her achievement is incredibly rare : a person against whom not a single soul ever had a bad word in her whole life. Somebody who anyone she has never known will always, always look up to as one of the most selfless people they have ever known. Someone to keep in mind when the world seems to tell you the wrong path is the right path. Someone to remind you that having a good heart is still, still pretty worthwhile!

( In continuation to the previous post http://nobodysignificant.blogspot.in/2012/07/mosaic-tiles-and-mismatched-curtains_19.html incedentally written around the same time last year) 

Are we any different?

I just read the book ‘The Help’ by Kathryn Stockett .About Mississippi in 1962. ‘A vanished world, where black maids raise white children but aren’t trusted not to steal the silver’.

India in 2011, and we aren’t very different. We may not use the words ‘black’ and ‘white’, but the boundaries are clear as ever. The ‘them’ and the ‘us’.

The book revolves around the lives of three women, Skeeter, one of the three main protagonists, a young educated white woman , decides to venture on an untrodden path and write a book about coloured domestics in Mississipi, helped by Ailbileen and Minny, two maids working for their unreasonable and eccentric white employers. The book is very real, with the story being richly described by the three protagonists in turn, three points of view, and the reader being transported into each of their contrasting worlds with each narrative.

The incident that led to Skeeter and Aibileen take on this daring task is something that happens everywhere today- Aibileen’s employer decides to come up with an initiative where separate toilets are installed in garages of homes for the coloured folk, as they carry diseases that are fatal to white people if there was sharing of toilets. In how many of our homes today do maids get to use our bathrooms ?  We may not treat them as untouchable any more, but the lines are very much there.

Do our maids ever sit on our furniture? Eat at our tables? Use the same dishes and glasses we use? We may talk to them as almost equals, leave aside food for them, give them not-so-old clothes, pay their children’s’ school fees, but yet will they ever presume to helping themselves to a glass of water with the very cups that they wash ?

If a maid dresses well, she is considered conceited. If a maid tries to stand up for her rights by forming associations and demanding minimum wages, she is considered a trouble-maker. If she spends a little extra money in sending her children to an English-medium school, she is considered something of a squanderer.

They work seven days a week. They do not get sick leaves and pensions, almost like the house-elves in Harry Potter. They do not presume to ever look at an employer as an equal. 

Like the coloured domestics of 1962, they raise the children of working mothers. Who make sure their jewellery is safely locked up before leaving them with their toddlers . The children call the maid by their names. Why ? Would they ever call a mother’s friend by name ? But the rules of respect do not apply to fifty year old domestic helps.  

Yes, maybe some of them steal. Some of them may lie, some may be immoral. But as quoted by Atticus Finch in 'To Kill a Mockinbird', this is true of all human beings. Not to the labour class alone.

Decades have passed since civil wars and fight for human rights. But most maids in India have the same story to tell.

 Husbands who beat them up in an inebriated state. Small incomes that barely get them the necessities of life. Desperately putting children through school so that they don’t suffer like their mothers. Coming to work even when sick because otherwise the employer cuts their salary. Small makeshift houses that leak during the rain. No proper water supply and electricity. Living in squalor.

We may boast about women power, about having a woman president before the mighty USA.( A president whose voice we rarely hear, but that's a different matter.) That we have  famous women reporters and writers and entrepreneurs.  But has this in any way changed our attitude towards our maids ? When will we change ?

Life, surprises and positivity.

(The past few months of volunteering Saturdays at Samiksha Foundation- Caring for children with cancer)

You see a lot of pain, a lot of suffering. You often get jolted by how harsh life is, and realise how petty your complaints are when you put things in perspective. But you also see so much positivity brimming around you, so much strength and resolve in accepting the unfairness of their situation, you see people who have enough problems in life even without having a small child diagnosed with cancer, and yet, they deal with the situation and go about the new routine without forgetting how to laugh. You see each child, unique, demanding and fun, leaving an impact. You encounter many incidents that leave you saddened and touched at the same time.

A  bubbly 8 year old girl solemnly gives me advice in the middle of an English Lesson- you have dandruff in your hair, you should use Chic shampoo. It will vanish in one day. This coming from a girl who has lost her hair because of chemotherapy makes one feel oddly guilty for being so privileged. Her mother one day sat with us for a Fourth Standard lesson telling us she had to drop out of school in Fourth Standard and she might as well sit and learn what she can now. And she read the book with concentration, asking us why the K in knife isn't the same as the K in kite, leaving us answerless.  Another girl, who was bored and listless the first few times I saw her underwent a sudden transformation and started enthusiastically solving fractions, and was so confident with her answers that that she insisted that textbook was wrong when one of the answers didn't match, telling me that it happens often.

Little things make them happy and eager- on shifting the older kids to a different room downstairs in the ward, suddenly they began feeling privileged. The younger ones fought to come downstairs while the older ones refused to be downgraded to sitting upstairs with the babies doing alphabets while they had more important lessons to deal with. One day we got out a whiteboard and one of the girls got so motivated with this little change, she briskly set about making it as classroom-like as possible, writing the date, subject, heading and drawing little margins.

The kids have their own groups and even a union leader of sorts. The oldest boy among them drives them around like a responsible elder brother and yells at them if they are too unruly. All of them help in putting away things without being asked, in fact, they fight over who folds the carpets and who carries the books back. One hyperactive seven  year old takes charge of even the lock and key to the library, sternly instructing me to switch off all the lights before locking the door.

The acceptance these children show is often unbelievable- once I came across a chapter in which  there was a boy who had cancer. The two tenth standard boys listening nudge each other and laughingly tell me they are like the boy in the lesson.

The teachers, Mrs.Parvathi and Mrs,Vidhyawati are models in dedication and generosity themselves. They are both stern and loving with the children, keeping them occupied and happy. I hurriedly had packed a bun for my lunch one day since the food wasn't ready, and the two of them seeing this quietly put half of their lunches into my box for me to eat.

The birthday events of course are tremendous fun for the kids- all the pent up energy comes tearing out, they laugh with abandon at the magic show, and Suresh the magician is amazing with the kids, hitting on just the right things to cheer them up and make them laugh. One of the events included an impromptu fashion show by the little girls, who walked up and down the 'stage' content with their everyday clothes and accessorised with their mothers' handbags.

Despite the moments that make you question the unfairness of life, it is usually positivity that I take back with me each time I leave Kidwai. Life's surprises may not always be pleasant, but with a little hope and dedication, we can try and make a small difference. 

Samiksha Foundation is a non-profit organisation founded by Sandhya Sharad in 2009. The foundation aims at providing quality non-medical support for children suffering from cancer and their care-givers, by organising educational and creative recreational activities for the resident patients at Kidwai Memorial Institite of Oncology , Bangalore.

You can visit the website http://www.samikshafoundation.org/ for more details, and do contact us if you are interested in extending your support towards this programme. Together, we can make a difference. 

Inspired ?

It is everywhere. Though sometimes, you just get moved by little things, some significant and some not, without ever taking it further and doing something productive about it. (Unless you call scribbling like this productive) Things that make you ponder. And wonder. Some of the things in the recent past that moved me. Strictly not in order the so called inspiration.

-Listening to ‘Kaatyayani’ sung by Bombay Jayashri at the Coke Studio sessions on repeat for half a day, the amount of character the slightest pause adds and the magic of listening to someone become one with ‘shruti’.

-Shopping at Blossoms Book Store being transported into a world where reality becomes surreal. And where you sincerely pity people who don’t read and have no idea what they are missing out on.

-A first presentation at work and being able to be a part of discovery and design, and seeing spaces evolve, and seeing houses that aren’t just spaces to exist in but to live life.

-Watching a leaf idly flutter by and discussing how your perception of the leaf reflects you. Whether you see joy or sorrow, or just inertia. 

-Watching a couple of four year olds play running and catching around a car, and shrieking in genuine surprise and amusement each time the ‘runner’ encounters the ‘catcher’ within the small radius.

-Catching up with a friend by discussing probability theory and life an odd hour of the night, and trying to make sense of existence using the unlikeliest analogies.

-Teaching middle school mathematics to a girl fighting cancer and actually being able to watch her change from extreme reluctance to sit in the class to actually enjoying subtracting fractions.

-Watching a baby mark her first year in the world, content playing with a hairbrush oblivious to the surrounding chaos, while her parents celebrate the miracle of her birth.

-Finding those moments when you are alone with your thoughts when the Bangalore evening weather is at its pleasant best, that make you want to freeze time forever. Such as now.

All she did was everything

Short Story attempt : -1/11/'12. Inspired by our ever smiling helper, Lakshmi. 

I go down to play everyday at 6 PM. Before that, I usually watch cartoons or play games on my computer, until Kani is free to accompany me to the park. She cuts vegetables and gets things ready for dinner while I sit in the living room. Sometimes she gets phone calls from her mother, saying her daughter is asking for her and if she can come home early, but she always says she cannot, and leaves only by 8PM which is when Mummy comes back from work. I asked her once why she can’t go home and take care of her baby daughter instead of taking care of me because I was almost 8 and I can go play on my own. But she just laughed and said “I wish the world was as simple as that”.

Kani’s actual name was Kanakalakshmi. She came to my house when I was just three years old and didn’t even know to tell time. Kani kept the house running like clockwork, arriving at 7 AM and briskly getting to work. The days she went on leave to her village were a mess, with clothes piling next to the washing machine and vessels scattered all over the kitchen counter. My bread would not have the crusts cut and my Complan would have too much chocolate. I would glumly eat the bland rice from the school canteen at lunch, and walk back from the bus stop with Vanitha Aunty who lived on the seventh floor, I would have to sit in her house till Mummy returned. I did not like her house- the plastic runners on her sofa stuck to my legs, the tables were all covered with cloths in crowded floral patterns that distracted me when I tried writing or drawing sitting at the table, and there was always a lingering smell of room fresheners that she kept spraying all over the house instead of opening the windows. I was not allowed to go down to play unsupervised, so I would wait listlessly till Mummy rang the doorbell at 8 PM and repeatedly thank Vanitha Aunty for keeping an eye on me. Vanitha aunty would insist on packing dinner for us, which my mother would refuse but I knew she was relieved she need not cook after all the stress at work.

I always keep hearing this word ‘stress’ when people talk about their job. When I grow up I am going to become a veterinarian and run an animal shelter. I will take care of stray animals and give them for adoption to people who want them. I can play with the dogs all day and not have any ‘stress’. Even our school teachers keep telling us they get stressed because of us.  Rohit got punished for drawing cartoons all over Miss Kavitha’s brand new white handbag which the principal told us was worth Rs.6000 and which was completely ruined now. I asked Mummy why someone would buy a handbag for that much money and she said it was because it was branded and imported from Europe. If I had Rs.6000 I would buy lots of dog biscuits to feed all the strays I see on the way to school, and a model of a dinosaur skeleton for myself. Maybe I would buy some toys for Kani’s daughter- I feel sad that she always has to play with my discarded toys, cars that have wheels missing and action figures with broken arms, and girls don’t like cars and action figures, even the ones that had all the parts in place.

Afternoons with Kani were different- she would meet me at the bus stop with a little treat for me, sometimes two biscuit with a cheese slice in between, sometimes a couple of strawberries. We would walk back and I would try to make her memorise the seven times tables along with me. We would stop at the apartment park for a few quick dashes on the swing. Once I forced Kani to sit on the swing when nobody was there in the park- she sat after I begged and begged, and held her sari tightly as I pushed her. As she went higher she laughed and laughed, and we stopped just in time when the security uncle passed by, looking at our uncontrolled giggles in suspicion.

After going home, she gives me another small snack and then I take a short nap while she busies herself in the kitchen. Then I would chat with her as she folded clothes, I used to help her until one day when Nandini Aunty was visiting and remarked “Looks like our Rishi does half her work for her and she gets paid a hefty sum.” After this she never let me do the little odd jobs I used to do, like watering the plants which I used to enjoydoing.

When it was time to go down, she would make me freshen up and insist on covering my face with talcum powder.  I play with Nakul, Sahil and the other boys. Kani sits on the bench watching. She usually doesn’t talk much to other maids, who exclude her from many discussions because she is divorced unlike them.They act like they dislike her but I think they secretly admire her. I know this because once the maid with the curly hair who works in F block came home when I was lying down but not yet asleep. She was crying about her husband and how he beat her because she came home late after cleaning up from a birthday party, and how he refused to give her her own salary money, because of which she has been walking three kilometres to work the past week. I saw Kani lend her money, and I heard her telling Kani she wished she had the guts to do what Kani did. Kani said “It is all because of Shilpa Akka’s help, I was lucky I had her.” I later asked Kani how she managed to lend her money when she herself had not bought a new sari in years in order to save for her daughter. She said sometimes you had to think of other’s needs as well.

Kani seldom complained, and always discouraged complaints from me. When I complained about homework she would remind me of that if I wanted to become a veterinarian, I would have to deal with a lot worse than homework. I knew Kani had far worse problems than me though she never told me much. She used to come to work with bruises and cuts, and I would see her and Mummy talking in hushed tones and overhear phrases like ‘time you take the baby and leave him’ and ‘no use putting up with this torture’. I told Kani to listen to Mummy and that they can both come and live with us in the spare bedroom. Though I like being alone, it might be nice to have someone to share my toys with, and I don’t have to go to Vanitha aunty’s house ever. Then when her daughter Parvathi grows older, she can join my school and we can go together. I can tell her how to get into Miss Kavitha’s good books by using a ruler to draw neat lines after every answer in my notebook, and how to be careful to never sit with my head resting on my palm in Miss Roshni’s class.

I had it all planned out and I began to like this new picture of my life. Both Mummy and I could be more relaxed while getting ready in the morning and Mummy need not worry about getting home on time. And if Kani occupied the spare room, then maybe we wouldn’t get visitors like Kannan uncle who would stay almost a month and use my computer to play Freecell for hours, or Nandini Aunty complaining about Kani and watching back to back television serials with crying women bringing in coffee and revengeful mother-in-laws calling up gangsters.

I was excited about my idea and explained it in detail to Kani. She gave me a hug when I finished and started crying. I asked her if that meant she was coming but she said she can’t, and said she knew I would grow up to be a generous man. I tried asking Mummy to convince Kani but she just smiled sadly and said it was not practical because Kani had a child.

Kani did eventually leave her husband, but didn’t come to live with us. Mummy told me not to ask her about it but I used to overhear her talking about her new house-owner who objected to her separated status, and about her mother who has come to live with her. Things didn’t change much for me after Kani’s separation but it must have changed a lot for her. Though sometimes she would not pay attention to what I was saying or would cut vegetables staring at the blank wall, she laughed more, and relaxed more. She would sometimes tell me about how she dreamt of her daughter becoming a school headmistress and how she would move back to her village and build a small house of her own and not have to worry about the next month’s rent. I asked her who would cook and take care of me after she left, but she said I would be old enough to take care of myself by then.

But I am not. Kani is leaving us in two weeks and going to her village. Mummy told me it was because of her grandmother falling sick and her mother wanting to move back along with Kani and her daughter, as there was nothing left in the city for them anyway; Kani’s husband and in-laws didn’t want anything to do with her or her daughter.  She tearfully told my mother that she would have to find a house in the adjoining town to work in, and that she will never forget us and visit whenever she can, and made us promise we would attend her daughter’s marriage after she grows up. I wish we could go with them- I would like to live in a village with big green fields and no noisy vehicles. But I know Mummy has her job in the city which she cannot leave.

Mummy is trying to be strong about it but I know she is very worried. I met the new lady today who will be coming to work, when she came to speak to Mummy. She seemed alright but she didn’t smile much and had a harsh voice. And I don’t know whether she will cut the crusts from my bread and put the right amount of Complan in my milk. I gave Kani a picture I drew as a parting gift – it had a picture of Kani in a nice little house with a garden and a chimney, waving to her daughter with spectacles and a handbag going to the school to teach, and next to her house was me in my animal shelter playing with all the dogs. I hope all our dreams come true. 

Music cures

(Disclaimer: This is not a music review)

I’m listening to A R Rahman’s new song from Kadal- ‘Adiye’ as I write this, and wondering how he does it. What is it about music that makes such a personal bond between song and listener? We all make a hue and cry about travelling but sometimes with music you can travel the world sitting in a room. You can shut yourself from everything with that simple invention, headphones. Or an instrument, or if you happen to be lucky enough to have a decent voice, then you need nothing. Touching the right note can be enough.

The song has now changed to ‘Anbin Vaasale’. Which pierces its way into your mind and demands your attention. What is it about this album ? Each song seems to stand out as a product of genius. This is not an album that you can play in the background, you have to stop and listen. (I’m taking around five minutes between sentences here while writing, and I stopped listening to it at work because it made my hands stop typing at the keyboard. )

 Maybe its me, but I don’t remember being this affected by a music album in a long time. Listening to each song for the first time had the anticipation of unwrapping a long overdue gift. From the time ‘Nenjukulle’ aired on MTV unplugged, it was the first song that would grace my Windows Media Player every day , until ‘Elay Keechan’ pleasantly arrived to compete. Each time he sang the line at 4:39 I wanted to hear that bit again- surprising what the slightest, almost unnoticeable modulation can do.

Listening to the rest of the songs yesterday, I couldn't stop at a comment or a ‘like’, there was something about this album that was capable of changing your mood tangentially in a mere four or so minutes. (I’m not presuming to ‘review’ this music- one can’t review something that one cannot hope to achieve in a thousand years)  Moongil Thottam and Chitthirai Nila in their separate mellifluous ways prove that people can do magic with notes and voices.  

Maybe when Roja first released it felt something like this? I was unfortunately too young to witness the magic back then, but I think this album is always going to remain special in its own way.