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”