Tashang Mo

Every time I take out the small silver Dorji pendant studded with tiny turquoise stones, I smile, thinking of the person who gifted it to me.

When we had to go to Paro in Bhutan for a sojourn of two years, people who had been there before told me that I was heading for an extremely lonely life. I was told that I would not be able to find work there and would have to spend my days inboredom.

Solitude was nothing new for me. I am very comfortable in silent and peaceful abodes. Moreover, the rebel in me always wakes up when I am told that something cannot be or should not be done. For those who tried to dishearten me, I reassured them that if I could not find any other occupation, I would resort to writing poetry.

Certain instances in life have led me to accept that the best way to make a wish come true is to believe that it is going to happen. I put that theory of mine to task there too. I did find a job in Bhutan and worked for a year. I also made some good friends; most of whom I could stay connected with, thanks to social networking sites. Among them, Tashang Mo stands out as a smooth and shiny blue turquoise.

The market in Paro consists of shops on either side of a road about a hundred metres long. On some days, when I used to be low on my spirits, I used to call for the vehicle and go to the Paro market. I would walk by the side of the road that was mostly occupied by street dogs, playing children and the elderly who sat and chewed their doma (pan) to idle away the time. They would smile with their doma stained teeth as if they were born only to sit and smile. It was a laidback scene; soothing and revitalizing.

Occasionally, I would peep into a shop or two and buy something insignificant just to strike a conversation with the shop owner. Indians, known for their persuasive haggling skills, are not well entertained by most of the shopkeepers.

One day while I stood outside gazing at the different colourful masks hung on the wall of a handicraft shop, a very pleasing lady from inside called me in. The wares of the shop ranged from wooden painted artifacts, paintings and wall hangings, statues in Yak bone and jewelry in silver and semi precious stones from Nepal and Tibet. She was as interested to talk to me as I was to know about her. I did not buy anything from her that day but after that, every time I went to the market, I would go to her shop to say hello to her and pick up something from there that stirred my curiosity that day. It pleased her that I remembered her name, Tashang Mo, for she felt that it was not an easy name for a foreigner to remember.

Tales of woe could be read behind Tashang Mo’s smiling face, which she occasionally let me comprehend. Many women whom I have come across in different stages of my life have taught me to stop ranting over small issues and accept things as they are which would help us to stay peaceful and composed. It is not easy and can be learnt only by enduring difficult situations in life. Tashang Mo shines to this day in my heart like the soft glow of moonlight; gentle and chaste.

Before leaving Paro, I visited her again with a small gift. In return, she pressed a pouch on to my hand with a silver pendant inside, one which I used to admire in her shop. It was an expensive one and I would not have accepted it had I not seen her tearful eyes. She disarmed me with her love and innocence. I could not get in touch with her after that. When my husband visited the place a year ago I asked him to find her but he could not locate her shop. I do not know where she is or how she is now but I keep sending my love and good wishes to her.

I treasure that pendant which she gave me, as the memoir of a friendship that has left a tender mark of noble love in my mind.

Dark and Beautiful

“Would you like to try the new face wash from Nature’s?” The question was from a very fair, young girl. I was entertaining myself window shopping inside the store. Not very pleased at the interruption, I gave her a ‘will you please keep quiet’ smile of mine.

She was unrelenting. “Ma’am this is a very good face wash for dark skin like yours….”

She stopped abruptly because my eyes hit her suddenly as I withdrew them from gazing on the shelf and fixed my glance on her face. “Eh…er...” she stammered and stumbled. “Your skin type can get many pimples ...this face wash is good...” First she called me dark and then she was saying my skin was having pimples. I was amused.

My paternal side of the family is all fair and lovely. My maternal side is fifty percent fair and lovely and fifty percent Vicco Turmeric as my maternal grandmother is very fair and maternal grandfather dark, from whom I seem to have inherited my skin.

There was a tall, fair and imposing distant relative, a granduncle, who was the President of the local community association. Whenever he passed our house, if he spotted me playing in the courtyard, he would enter through the kottiyambalam and call me near. He would hold both my arms together, peer into my face and say, “Oho…you are Puthen Veedu Vijayan’s daughter, isn’t it?”

I would mumble a yes and then he would continue feigning a puzzled expression, “Vijayan is fair, his mom Retnamma Chechi is very fair…all of them there are fair…how come YOU are dark?”

I would go darker with anger. All I wanted to do would be to roll my fist, gather my strength and punch him on the nose. Instead, I would just look away as he laughed aloud showing shiny dentures, his fair form enhanced by his silver hair and white attire.

Once I assembled my will and replied, “I am not from Puthen Veedu. I belong to Kalpavilakom.” Kalpavilakom is my maternal house.

The giant laughed hilariously at that and said, “Is it? So you are Kalpavilakom Thankom’s granddaughter? But Thankom is very fair!” Thankom is my maternal grandmother. She is very fair and still lovely at the age of eighty six.

I vividly remember the giant granduncle’s loud laugh. After that day, if I get a whiff of his arrival, I would dart inside the house and would not come out until he left. Later when I was older, I found out that his wife was a dark lady. He had no children.

Dark, dusky or earthy, I love my skin because that is the only guise I have.

Once a good friend told me, “People say deep and bright colours don’t suit dark skin. I see you wearing all those colours and they suit you very well.”

My dark skin has never prevented me from wearing the colour I like. I can wear any colour I like and match it with my attitude!

When Death stops for someone

When I read this facebook post saying that immediately after you die, your identity would become a ‘body’ and no one would call you by your name, I was reminded of a long distance call that woke me up from my short afternoon nap one day.

The familiar voice from beyond asked, “Were you sleeping?”

“No,” I said, “What’s new?”

“I saw yesterday’s evening news….Advocate Krishnan Nair died.”

I didn’t ask who Krishnan Nair was. Whoever he was, he must have been important enough to make into the local channel news after death.

“He had blood cancer,” I listened silently.

“You know, they showed his body being taken for funeral. He had all his hair on his head and moustache too…” I then got an insinuation regarding the struggled description of Advocate Krishnan Nair’s death.

“I too want my hair and moustache intact when they take me out.”

After a pause, I said. “Sure. You will have all your hair on your head and the moustache too. We will ask for the treatment without any side effects.”

My reply seemingly doused the immediate anxiety regarding the treatment and the subsequent hair loss.

“Okay”, came the passive response and the line went out.

There is a saying in Malayalam, ‘Chathu kidannalum chamanju kidakkanam’ which means, even when you are lying dead, you should look your best. When you spend a whole life caring and impressing others, why not do so in death too or at least wish to be so.

My grandmother told us all years before her demise that she had kept a passport size photo of hers in her wooden box and we needn't hunt the house for a photograph immediately after her death to publish it in the death column of the newspaper. The best one she could find, that brought out her in all her magnificence.

Recently, I came to know that an aunt of mine has expressed her wish to have a particular delicacy served on the seventh day feast that follows her boarding the Death’s Chariot.

Our physical form definitely loses its identity once the breath leaves. We will not smell the fragrance of the flowers on our hearse nor feel the comfort of the clothes put on us. We will not hear the heart rending wail of the mourners, may there be one or many. Despite knowing all this, we worry about the care and camaraderie our ‘body’ and memory later would get to enjoy.

After a certain age, people start talking that their ‘time’ would soon come, though heart of heart they would be wishing that it never arrived. Everyone would grab perpetual youth and immortality if they are offered on a platter. Prudence would not make people admit it and would make them speak wise words about old age and death.

No one wants to die. But, when death is inevitable, imagine that to be in all splendor, majestic.

“Because I could not stop for Death
He kindly stopped for me
The Carriage held but just Ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove -- He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility”

TWENTY MINUTES

Every day, the wait for the bus was longer than the time taken for the journey. Still after a long day, one didn't mind the wait at the small bus stop. The place swarmed with school children who intruded into the office compound nearby plucking gooseberries and rose apples from the trees there. The crowd would diminish slowly with every passing bus.

Her bus was usually late and when it came, there would be a scuttle with around twenty kids with their bags running to board the red and yellow colored battered Tata vehicle. Once inside, the other feat was to find a breathing space with a firm foothold for the next twenty minutes. The bus would reach a stop every three minutes and one had to bend and budge to allow the messy maneuvering little passengers get down the bus.

It was during one such journey that she caught a pair of eyes that remained fixed on her. He was on a window seat, comfortably sitting and staring at her. She could feel the rush of blood to her face while she turned her gaze to the passing greenery outside. The surging annoyance, which she gulped down, did not stop her from stealing a furtive glance at him before getting down from the steaming bus. He was there at the same place; his gaze still unaltered.

The next day, before boarding the bus her eyes scanned the windows. She found him again, at the same place. His eyes found her too as soon as she climbed on to the bus. This time she was more embarrassed than annoyed. She tried to hold her face away from his gaze to satisfy her wounded modesty. He seemed to be unaware of the trembling of her heart because his eyes remained fixed on her face as in a trance. She could turn herself around and deny him the sight he obviously longed for; she did not do it.

She discovered that a little bit of kohl on the eyes and a deep red bindi added to her beauty. Her hair was long and touched her waist. She rolled the small locks around her broad forehead with her fingers. She replaced the gold bangles on her hand with colourful glass bangles. Every time before boarding the bus she adjusted her beautifully plaited hair; which often drew admiring eyes.

The twenty minute-long silent affair continued every day except a few occasions when the red and yellow bus missed the date. His eyes held her as if in a spell. She held her most elegant poise that the moving and swaying bus permitted.

Days and weeks his eyes pursued her in the bus relentlessly. One day, while climbing on to the bus, she felt the warmth of trailing eyes missing. She noticed that he was there on the same seat but was not looking at her. His eyes were focused down at an open book in his hand. She wondered what there was in the book that had caught his persistent eye. She stood there glancing stealthily now and then at him to catch his glance. Twenty minutes and he never looked at her. The story was the same the following day. His impassive eyes seemed to be locked on to a page in the book in his hand.

Slowly, she realized that some other thing of beauty had seized the day dreamer’s eye. She smiled to herself. She felt liberated like a model released after the painter finished his portrait. She stepped down the bus with her open hair fluttering in the evening breeze. The smile lingered on her face as she was walking down her path home, oblivious to many other pairs of fascinated eyes staring at her.

MY SANDAL STORY ;)

 
I had pampered my feet wearing the comfy pair of sneakers.So I was having a tough time while wandering through the shops in the mall in sandals. 

We were there to wither away the two hours as our two sons watched ‘Iron Man 3’ in the multiplex on the fourth floor. I had put my hands up when I heard they wanted to watch that movie. I had no more patience left to sit and watch cartoons and science fiction movies wearing the 3 D glasses. Their father was even more vehement. So we decided to book the tickets only for the boys. While they watched the movie, we would ‘window’ shop in the mall below.

I had finished revolving my eyes around the entire length and breadth of the shops in the third floor resisting all temptations. There were three more floors left. The escalator was on the other corner of the floor. The lift was taking a long time to come. At that time, I spotted a staircase by the side and decided to climb down to the next floor. It

was a stairway which led to the parking lot on the second basement. My feet were aching so much that while I was on the second flight of stairs, I felt like stretching my right foot which I immediately did. I was holding the railing and standing at the right end of the stairway. That moment my sandal slipped out of my right foot. Before I could scream after a gasp, it plummeted down and reached the second basement with a thud.

I got a glare from my husband who was a couple of steps ahead of me. I gave him one of my usual stupid smiles as there was nothing else for me to do other than wait there and allow him to run down the five floors and retrieve my precious sandal. There were no other souls around. No one else bothered to take the fire escape stairway on a hot summer afternoon when there were enough escalators and lifts inside the building.

I limped down one flight of stairs in one sandal while my husband ran down the stairs. He yelled to me to keep an eye on the sandal lest someone should grab it before he reached the spot. I wondered why anyone would want to take a single sandal but kept it to myself as it would have been murderous to counter him at that point of time. Thanks to his regular exercising regime, he was back in no time, triumphant holding the sandal in hand.

For rest of the staircase, he made sure I walked by the side of the wall. Inside the mall, he insisted that I buy a pair of shoes and do an immediate switch from the sandals. Unfortunately (for me - but luckily for him), I could not find a comfortable pair in any of the shops. Rest of the time we spent in the mall, he diligently kept me away from the staircase and ensured we went up or down by escalators or elevators only!

ALL FOR ICE CREAM. :)

I love tapioca. My mother loves it too. But, nowadays when I visit home I rarely get to eat this ‘poor man’s delicacy’ at home owing to the soaring blood sugar levels of my mother and grandmother. So, whenever I see tapioca in the Kerala store here, I lean towards it. The messy cutting and boiling doesn't bother me at all when I think of the aroma and the taste of the butter soft ‘Maricheeni’ (as the ‘South Travancoreans’ call it) melting in my mouth.

I love it with chutney made of crushed green chilies, small onions and tamarind with salt. Well cooked tapioca dotted with freshly grated coconut, laced with spluttered mustard seeds and curry leaves in oil make a heavenly combination with this fiery chutney.

Back home Maricheeni would incarnate with spicy fish curry. This time the tapioca would be cooked and mashed with coconut ground with turmeric, red chilies, garlic and cumin seeds. Let me not dwell into the details which might make me wistful.

So yesterday again I could fetch some tapioca home, half of which I threw away as the long journey from God’s Own Country to the National Capital had made them lose the crusade against the intruding humidity and heat. I was cutting whatever I could save with some malevolence at the shop keeper in my mind for selling me the rotten tapioca when my sharp and heavy iron knife landed on the tip of my thumb slicing off half my nail. I washed the blood off and searched frantically for a band aid. Band-Aids get over faster than chocolates in our house, so I couldn't find any. It was a holiday for school so my two sons were at home. I bandaged my thumb with cloth and went about my chores.

 After serving breakfast I said aloud that I needed a band aid from the shop half a km away. I heard comments like, the shops open late, the sun was very strong, the maid must be going there to buy something etc.

At three o’ clock when I was slowly sliding into a siesta my younger one appeared near the bed.

‘Is there any sweet in the house?’

‘No’, I said. I knew that he was asking that after raiding the refrigerator and the kitchen cupboard.

‘Shall I go and buy ice cream?’

I glared at him.

‘OK. You wanted band aid isn't it? I’ll buy that too’, he said.

What a generous offer!

‘Fine’, I said. ‘Take the money from my purse and go.’

In another 20 minutes six band aids lay  on the side table next to me, beside a bowl of chocolate chip ice cream.

I learnt a new lesson. Ice creaming works faster than screaming.

The Chorus of the Frogs

It had been raining every day for the past one month. The smell of wet clothes, damp shoes and closed windows had started giving the house a dungeon like smell.

I started thinking of the chorus of the frogs. The nonstop song I used to listen in my childhood, on those nights when fever throbbed through the nerves in my head, and the salty taste of the rice water lingered on my tongue.

On rainy days, the chorus of the frogs started by dusk in the nearby pond. It grew louder by night. Incessant rains would cut off power and then we had an old Japanese Transistor for entertainment. It had a thick leather cover which gave it a very distinctive look. Years later, when the leather was torn and discarded, the ivory white transistor looked as if it had been stripped off its only coat and made to look ashamed of its penury.

Those days, we regularly used to listen to a horror drama on the radio at eight thirty in the night, twice in a week, sponsored by Modi Continental Tyres. The title song of the soap itself used to give me the shivers. Sleep would evade me as I lay on the bed listening to the relentless chorus of the frogs thinking of the flying hands and evil spirits that the voices in the transistor so proficiently articulated. The chorus would go louder by midnight as I slowly slipped into some distant dream.

The frogs lived in the pond; the pond was their territory. Long ago, it belonged to a small temple. There was a poor priest who lived on the meager contributions from the devotees who came to worship there. One night the idol of the temple was stolen. The devotees who came to the temple blamed the priest of stealing the idol. The unfortunate priest threw all the utensils in the temple into the pond in anguish and then jumped into it himself. After the loss of the idol and the death of the priest, the temple was deserted and ended up in ruins. The pond survived and so did the hundreds of frogs who continued their only business; procreate and croak loudly on rainy nights.

As I lie awake I would think how the poor priest, who was dragged down into the swamp as he jumped into the pond, would be bearing with the ruthless chorus of the frogs.

As the chorus grew louder my fever dimmed eyes would see him surface from the pond. In the darkness, the sacred thread across his chest and the white dhoti around his hip would stand out. With his long hair tied behind his head he would wade slowly out of the water. I would blink my eyes and wipe out the image before he came out of the pond to the road. I would then pull the bed sheet over my head before I slithered into a slumber.

Kaathilola??? Nalla Thaali!!!!

Kaathilola???

Nalla Thaali!!!!

This was a dialogue I heard in childhood narrated by my Malayalam teacher while teaching us about Ottam Thullal, a renowned art form of Kerala. Ottum Thullal was devised overnight by the great Kunjan Nambiar in an attempt to give a fitting reply to his friend /teacher Chakiar who made fun of Nambiar while enacting Chakiar Koothu, an art form which was famous in those times. In Chakiar Koothu they had the license to make fun of the audience and even the king through their slokas.

Kunjan Nambiar called his new art form Ottam Thullal and used poems in simple Malayalam words to convey his satirical thoughts and ideas. “Ottam Thullal” when translated would mean ‘Running Jumping’. The performer sings the poems himself on stage and enacts them too. There’s a lot of energy required to enact it which is also imbibed into the audience. The performer makes use of every opportunity to satirize the society and his audience.

My mother told me these four lines which she said is oft repeated in Thullal,

“Ottam thullalil palathum parayum

Athu kondaarkkum paribhavamaruthu

Angine paribhavam undaayaal thanne

Ividoru chukkum varuvanilla”

It means,

“In thullal many unpleasant things may be said.

No one should feel offended by those comments.

Even if you feel offended, no one is going to care

And nothing is going to happen here about it.”

Sounds callous but when someone is made fun of, it is amusing for others in the audience.

Once, Kunjan Nambiar was on a morning stroll with his learned friend. They happened to confront the queen and her maid who were going to take bath in the temple tank with Thaali leaves in hand.

[Thaali is a plant whose leaves when crushed, give a thick juice which is a good shampoo for the hair. There were lots of Thaali plants in our backyard when I was small and I loved to eat its berries which turn a deep purple when ripe. Hibiscus leaves are also used as Thaali.]

Kunjan Nambiar seeing the beautiful damsels looked at his friend and said loudly, 

“Kaathil Ola” [Studs in the ears]

The friend immediately reciprocated “Nalla Thaali” [Good shampoo].

The unsuspecting queen and her maid thought that the scholars were in a frivolous mood in the morning and had commented upon their beautiful ear studs and shampoo in hand. They quietly went ahead.

Kunjan Nambiar and his friend must have had a good laugh behind them for what Kunjan Nambiar asked in Sanskrit was,

“Kaa Athi Lola?”, meaning “Who is the pretty one?”

And the friend’s reply was “Nallath Aali”, “The maid is better.”

  

Sons and mothers

Today I happened to read the status update of renowned film maker and actor Balachandra Menon about his mother who passed away recently. In his touching account he has mentioned that his father used to say that he was a mom’s son. Every son is a mom’s son. The first woman or rather the first person who influences a man in his life is always his mother. A mother designs the mindset of her children; especially that of her son.

I have listened to some good gentleman friends, my husband and my father talk about their departed mothers with a poignant resignation. A mother reigns like a goddess in a son’s mind long after she ceases to be. Their power and influence may differ according to their personalities and circumstances but they continue to be a longing presence in the hearts of their children; especially sons.  

A son belongs solely to his mother until she generously gives him away to another woman; his wife. A wife who finds that her husband loves and reveres his mother can rest assured of a life time of love and care from him. A man who loves and respects his mother can never disregard or ill-treat another woman.

The loss of a parent at any age is an irreparable loss. The loss of a mother steals from one the tender comfort of a loving caress, an affectionate gaze, a gentle kiss. A mother’s presence gives a feeling of reassurance of having someone to run to in distress and in joy. The final prayer of a loving mother would be that her children should be cared for even after she is gone.

No love is selfless. A mother willfully gives away and let go her wishes and happiness sometimes to see their children smile. She does so because her heart is set on an even bigger reward; the reward of love and remembrance of a life time. 

Flight from New Delhi to Dubai.

Cabin service of our National carrier.

Flight from New Delhi to Dubai.

The Airbus 330 was full.

The crew was serving drinks.

The man on the aisle seat in one of the middle rows where we were, asked for a whisky.

The hostess served him that with a packet of roasted peanuts.

She had just pushed her trolley to the next row when the man gulped the drink in one go, turned behind and asked for another.

She said, “I just gave you one.” The man replied that he had finished it.

I heard her annoyed reply, “Itni jaldi piya tho mein kya karun!” and pushed her cart ahead.

The man had to wait for a while before she came asking for another round of drinks. He spent the interval munching the peanuts from his own packet and mine which I had generously given to him. He was cautious next time she came. He asked her to serve him two then. 

The passenger waits for three hours before he boards an international flight and everyone cannot afford a meal at the opulent environment of the IGI or any other airport. He relies on the meal served by the airlines to soothe his hunger. But, does hunger account for the appetite for drinks too?

True, the airline service has turned from being motherly to grandmotherly with the crew aging graciously with the airline.  They deserve respect and consideration.

What is service? Obliging the customer’s every wish irrespective of his/her tone and tenor or expecting etiquette and decency from everyone who obliges you?  

Ammumma's Diamonds

With the cold weather playing hide and seek I sat with my evening tea trying to stifle an infection looming inside my throat. Body ache and feverishness made me abandon my evening walk.

My phone rang. My mother was on line. She informed me that she was sitting in Bhima Jewellery, Trivandrum with her daughter in law who was prompting her to exchange her old studs for a diamond one. I smiled and said it was good and hung up.

My younger one came running. “Who was it?” he asked.

“It was your Ammumma. She is buying diamonds.”

“Ehhh?? Why is Ammumma buying diamonds??? She is old!”

I frowned at him and told him there was no age to wear diamonds. He ran to inform his elder brother. Then they both came running from their room. The elder one asked, “Amma is it true? Ammumma bought diamonds?  From where?”

“Bhima”, I answered.

“Why… she should have gone to Kalyan Jewellers. Don’t they sell diamonds without black dots? They bring good luck!”

Dumbfounded, I realized that it is I who watch Malayalam channels at home. That is how they get to see all those jewellery ads that keep coming on TV.

“Amma you also buy diamonds now”, suggested the younger one.

I explained to him that I was not interested in diamonds as there were many other colourful things in life which were less expensive.

After an hour break, I find him standing behind me as I was typing on the computer. “Amma, why didn’t Ammumma buy diamonds from Malabar Gold? They have a big collection…”

I glared at him and said loudly. “Call up your Ammumma and ask that!”

Their father who had come home for the weekend only to pack again and leave on Sunday was passing by the door of the room and heard me shout. He came running inside.

“Why are you yelling?” He asked.

“Your mother in law bought diamonds”, I told him.

“Is it? But why are you angry for that? Is it because I didn’t buy you diamonds??”

That is it. I close my eyes and ears. I pull up my socks, wear my shoes and go out for a walk. Walking alone is good for physical and mental health.