Notes & Letters

When you say that you are going to write something, but eventually end up working weekends or playing Age of Empires, you think that you can get away with it, because even though you made a promise, it was more to oneself than to the people following your blog. And all promises to oneself, like the countless New Year resolutions, are meant to be broken. Or so I thought.

I was made to come out of this illusion, when one of my two followers here, Mahavir, asked me at office the other day why I was not writing anymore. It must have been one among the umpteenth topics he finds to talk about, or a conversation filler, if not anything else. Anyways, it was enough to get my thought train running.

The oft repeated phrase while commenting on my literary works has been “nice way of telling the story, in simple, easy-to-follow English”. I don’t know if people are talking about a unique skill I have, or are taking a dig at my mediocre vocabulary (though I prefer to believe it’s the former), but I never thought they would want to read more from me. For me, the best work I could make has already happened (refer previous post), just like the best video I will ever make is the only one I made.

But to have a person actually ask why I’m not writing (forget that it might have been just a conversation filler), made me happy to say the least, like any ego-centric guy you can find out there. In the discussion that followed, I tried to blame a fictitious writer’s block, stopping the perennial flow of fiction from me, but in small quantities you see in my status messages.

Well, he played along with me, saying that it was hard to write anything without actually having a mood to write. He compared writing to playing a guitar (something which he does well). He could practice some song or tune all day, and still not come up with anything original, if there isn’t that elusive spark in our mind. On the other hand, if the spark does visit us, there will be no dearth of creative wealth.

With a few more words, he left me to mull over these points. And that’s when it struck me. Writing and playing a guitar are one and the same; with their obvious differences of course. Both are intended to please an audience, while showcasing a specific skill of the person, who does the show. And both need practice and a certain knack to attract people.

It also requires a certain sense on the part of the audience to really enjoy the “performance”. You can’t perform a rock song at a senior home, and expect to get a standing ovation. Likewise, I don’t expect you to understand what I write. I’m a normal 22 year old guy, with a decent job, who doesn’t know where the hell his life is heading. He’s going with the flow, and trying to make the least effort possible to get the maximum kick out of his life. What I write is basically aimed at people falling to a category, same or similar to my own. So, if you are some 25 year old entrepreneur, worth $100 billion bucks, I can assure you that you won’t understand anything here. But if you are a non-descript, aimless guy wandering through life as if it’s a museum, then you will feel like home here.

Guess I digressed too much with the boring details of my weekly self-evaluation. Coming back to the topic at hand, music and writing are like peas in pod. Similar in all respects, but visible only for the people searching for these similarities. When I write something, it’s actually like I’m writing a musical score. But unlike music, the audience doesn’t need to have someone perform for them. They can go to a place where it’s available (like my blog), read and eventually enjoy it.

And to sum up all the crap I have been talking about into four sentences…

Let it be a prose, a rock song, a poem, or an acoustic song; it all means the same thing. A way of communicating between people. And as long as we have Notes & Letters, I will keep writing and he’ll keep playing. Nothing, and I mean nothing can block that. \m/

The Last Wish

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This post was originally posted in “whatitmeanstobehari.blogspot.com”, my previous blog… Half the people who read it at that time couldn’t understand the head or tail of it… And I can’t blame them… I wrote this as an emotionally drained grandson… So I have now decided to edit the original post, and repost it here for it to make some sense to you… Read it through, and tell me about a great talk you have had with your grandparents…

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He used to tell me, actually teach me about all the things in the world… Till the age of ten, the half an hour power cut every day was actually story time for me and my cousin sister … The majestic lives of Akbar and Birbal, the legends of Ram and Krishna, the whole big bang theory, evolution of life, dinosaurs, anything and everything... Such was the variety of things he talked to us about, that I can’t understand for what reason I stopped this tradition of ours… We hadn’t talked like this since I was a little boy… Until…


16.08.09 (whatever I’m saying in this conversation have been given in italics)


"Do you remember your grandmother’s brother??? He was tall... Like you... I think taller than you... Six feet four... or five... Well, no one was there to take care of him in the end, and your grandmother and I decided to that... He was bed ridden, till the very end… He had once asked me to get him a bottle of kallu (Kerala’s very own brand of alcohol)... He said even a half would be enough, but that he just wanted a taste of it, before he died... I asked him how I could get him that, when I have never bought one in my life...”

“He said, “There is a shaap (a place where you get kallu) at the junction... Just go in and tell my name... They'll give you my usual...””

“But I could not bring alcohol inside the house to give to a sick old man... My morals and the fear of what society will say made me reject his request…. A few of his fellow drinking friends used to visit him... I asked him to get the stuff through them…. But even they didn’t get his quota, and he died without getting that last drop he so much yearned for…”

“I have never felt bad for not getting him that last drop till now... But now my conscience is hurting... I feel his pain because I’m in the same stage as he was now... And it would end the same, if someone didn’t get me a beedi (cigarette) or a pakku (pan) before I die…”


“Why are you talking like this?? You are not that old... You'll live long...”


“One doesn’t know how much longer one is going to live at my stage... Getting one last chance of enjoying our favourite thing will be heaven on earth for a person of my age… I denied that chance for him…. I did a terrible thing… It was wrong… I should have bought him that… I could not understand him then…”

“What if someone doesn’t understand me at my end??? I just wish that I don’t have to be bed ridden... I don’t want to make my children suffer... I want to die in one go… You know, the best death is when you die in your sleep... You go to bed like always... You close your eyes... You never wake up… But only lucky people get that... I hope I’m lucky…”

“And what will I get by living a longer life?? I will be causing more trouble for you...”

“Taking care of you is not a trouble... It’s our duty...”

“Yes, it’s your duty… But as I get older, my bodily systems will get weaker... I'll need help... Always… Then, it'll be troublesome for both you and me... And I don’t have much more to see in this world... I would just like to see your sister's marriage and you getting a job... Just one more year will be enough for me... I just hope that I don’t get bed ridden...”

21.08.09
12.20pm

As I waiting for paying my bus fees at college, I get a call from home... It was my mom… “Kannan, come home now… Grandfather is not well... Its urgent…Come here fast...”

Even though my paranoid mind kept playing out the worst case scenarios, I convinced myself through the hour long ride back home that he was fine… Maybe some minor problem to his health… I remembered that he was out in the front yard in the morning, watering the plants, when I left for college…

As I reached home, Mom meets me at the gate... She's not crying now... That’s good, I thought…. But from her face, it seemed like she had just stopped crying... Mom takes my helmet from my hand... And then she starts crying... In the midst, she says, "Appupan poi." (Grandfather’s gone)

He went the way he liked... He fell down unconscious in front of our gate on his way home from the barber's... No broken bones or anything... Just a few scratches... I felt guilty... I could not give him the perfect exit... I must have got him his last beedi, or at least his last pakku... I would feel guilty about it forever... Since I had planned stocking one of each at home, if the need arose... But I didn’t think the end would happen so soon...

Slowly the news of his last few actions came in... He had talked to people standing just near our house... They said he was cheerful and hadn’t shown any pain or exhaustion... The doctor also said that he died because his heart stopped beating... Not a stroke, but his heart just stopped pumping blood... So the end came fast, like he liked...

Then came the message that made me happy in the middle of this tragedy... The local grocery man came to the funeral... He said, "Sir had come to my shop before coming home... We talked for a long time... Just before leaving, he bought a packet of pakku...”


Post-script


Ever since my sister's marriage was fixed, Appupan wanted it to happen no matter what happened to him... He kept saying that even if something happened to him, the marriage must happen... So, keeping in mind his last wish, we went ahead with the marriage...
And now, sitting here, nearly one year after I joined my job, I can say that all his last wishes were satisfied… Including the position in the front yard, where he wanted us to keep his ashes, as is the custom at our place… Even though, they have been removed about a year ago, I always steal glances to that spot, knowing well that he keeps watch over me…

I would like to end this with words taken from a post we received from a colleague of Appupan (grandfather)...

"I pray to Lord Padmanabha that may his noble soul rest in eternal peace"

My Paranoid Friend - Fine Print

"Bhaiyya... Ye kaun sa gadi hai??"

The fluency of his Hindi, or actually, the lack of it did nothing to hide the fact that Anush was not a versatile speaker in his adopted language. For a guy brought up in South India, all the Hindi he had to speak in active life was when he had to help some hapless tourist in his hometown with some directions.

Of course, being a product of the Kendriya Vidyalaya family stood him in good stead. Because 10 years of mugging up for the Hindi exams made sure that he could fit in with the crowd easily, when he had to go north in pursuit of his career.

Right now, he was returning to his "new" hometown, Gurgaon, after a three day weekend trip. Even though it was considerably far, he had his reasons to go. I could never understand his illogical antics, nor could any of his other friends. Despite this, he was good of heart, and that endeared me to this fella. And it was public secret that I always referred to him as "My Paranoid friend".

Many say he was inspired from Ghajini, but I remember seeing him trimmed up top even before that, with hair so scant, that you will think that he left them there just to let us know that he aint bald. But being a lanky figure with no 6 packs, he didn’t intimidate people with his "style" like Aamir or Surya did in Ghajini.

Going back to the origins of the said train journey, I remember him saying that he had got held up on his way to the station. Feeling that the sights along the roadside were way too good to be not framed by his new camera, he decided to walk to the station. He set out two hours before the train's due arrival at the station 2km away, but he was so caught up with taking pictures on the way that he arrived with time to just enquire which platform his train was at.

The person at the counter, Hafez had just put in his mouth his daily quota of betel leaves. His doctor had told him to cut his daily consumption, after a false scare, when he wrongly diagnosed with throat cancer. Hafez dropped taking it at first due to the scare he received, but as time wore on, he made a pact with God, that he would have it just once every day. He just couldn’t kill off his addiction.

Anyways, standing before him now was a young man, very much like his own son, trying to get back to his place. Hafez knew Anush had missed the last announcement for that train, but he didn’t want to miss his five minutes in heaven. So he just pointed him onto a train leaving the station.

Clutching the general class ticket he had had the brains to take the day before, he jumped onto the moving wagon, and found himself in the company of some fellow ticketless travellers. Wanting to confirm that the betel-chewing monster at the desk hadn’t tricked him onto the wrong train, he sought the company of this “nearing-30, but still trying to look like a dude” dude, with “Bhaiyya... Ye kaun sa gadi hai??"

“Tumko kahan jaana hai?”
“Dilli”
“Ticket hai?”
“General”
“Tho yahan kahin bhayt jao. Subah hoti hi dilli paunch jaagoge”

The “yahan kahin” that the dude referred to was the “vast” space between the cabins and toilet of the coach. Though already filled up with a varied assortment of bags and people, Anush made some space for himself, and sat in front of the wash basin.

And then started the non-stop ranting from the dude. I call him “the dude”, because for some reason Anush and the dude didn’t ask each other’s names. The norm of exchanging pleasantries, which is common everywhere else, loses its significance in lonely long travels, when the main thing the solo traveller requires is a person to talk to.

Anush was more than happy to have someone for company, because he hadn’t had anyone to talk to for the past two days. But like I said, most of the talking was by the dude, with Anush only allowed to talk when questioned. But on hearing that Anush was a junior level employee at a big company, who makes as much money as the dude does after 8 years of working, the dude goes into hyper drive, trying to prove a point, that the dude is way better than Anush.

“You know, I had got an offer when I was at dilli. This friend of mine had a friend, who on seeing my marketing skills, asked me to come join his company. He offered me 6 lakhs per month, a flat in east Delhi and a brand new four wheeler of minimum 8 lakhs. But I said no. These people offer these things, give you half of what they offer and make you stay for 5-8 years at the same place. And you gotta work like a slave to them.”

“I don’t like that. I want freedom. That’s why I chose this job. Yes, it pays less and it’s far away from home, but it gives me the freedom I need. Just last week, I barged into the room of my Area Manager and told him to make a decision about...”

Anush doesn’t actually remember what topic the dude discussed with his boss in such pompous fashion. He was actually trying to figure out what was the meaning of the dude’s t-shirt. It had the view of a city at sunset, with five skyscrapers. The one in the middle was the tallest one, with others decreasing in height symmetrically. And to add to the confusion, there was a letter “U” at the bottom of all this. Maybe, some new brand.

“… and so I told him that I will work when I want to work, and not any time else.” Anush had forgotten all about the monotonous talk that was going on beside him. “You should have seen his face. That fool with an MBA, only God knows from where he got it, wanted to kill me, but he couldn’t because I am the best he has in marketing. I just gave him my leave application and left.”

“Sitaphal… Meeta Sitaphal”, came the cry of a hawker from somewhere inside the train. “Say, would you like some sitaphal?? You must try it. It’s good for your body and health.” Saying so, the dude flagged down the passing hawker and asked him the price.
“Teen ka beez.”
“Arae yaar.. Paanch de de”

And after some shrewd wordplay, the dude was able to get five sitaphal at 20 rupees. Maybe, he wasn’t lying the whole time after all. Maybe he really is a good marketer like he said. As Anush was thinking over these lines, he was offered a sitaphal by a smiling dude.

Even though Anush tried to decline the offer, dude was persistent, and Anush had to accept it. Anush got up to wash the fruit, and that’s when his eyes fell on a poster above the wash basin. He sat down and began to read it. It was the usual poster you see in the coaches, saying “Passengers shouldn’t accept food from strangers, while travelling, as it might be drugged.” There was some fine print there too, but he couldn’t read it from where he was sitting.

As he bit into the sweet juicy flesh of the fruit, Anush thought about the futility of such messages. Now, who in their right minds would do such a thing? With so many instances of robbery on train committed using this MO, Anush was sure that nobody would fall for this trick. And that’s when it struck him.

He was doing exactly what the poster asked him not to do. And now, it was his paranoid mind which went into hyper drive.
Maybe the dude had planted himself there to get hapless people like him. Maybe the hawker was his accomplice, who came at the right time to sell the sitaphal. And didn’t he notice a prolonged eye contact when the hawker gave him the last fruit, the one dude gave him right now.
Such and more thoughts on this line whirred around his almost-bald head, until it struck him.
“Oh My God!!! I’m gonna get robbed.”

Anush hastily faked biting into a bad core, said a few curses out loud at the fruit, and threw it out the window. Dude offered him one more, but Anush, wisely refused it. As the baritone from the dude continued, Anush was thinking of how he could escape. And he was suddenly feeling sleepy. Even though he kept assuring himself that the cause for this was two days of sleeplessness and not a drugged fruit, he decided he could risk sitting there much longer.

Anush stood up. He had a confirmed ticket from the next station to dilli, and he just had to hitch a ride in this sleeper coach only till there. He told this to the dude, and said he was gonna go to his seat, as the next station was coming up soon. The dude was sad on hearing this, and asked Anush to keep him company a little while longer, but Anush was able to get himself loose from the dude’s grip.

Cursing his bad luck, Anush made his way to his coach. The walking was what he needed to lose his drowsiness, and he felt quite energetic as he reached his seat, just as the train reached the next station. The people who were sitting there got down at that station. Now, he didn’t have worry about travelling without a ticket. He jumped onto to his seat, and waited for his co-passengers to arrive. It was a family of four - father, mother and two kids.

He talked with the family for a few minutes, just out of basic courtesy. But the children took a liking to him, and he had to put off sleeping for an hour or so, as he played with kids. The mother called in the kids to give them some snacks, and Anush told them he was gonna sleep for a while, and that he would play with them later.

As he was getting himself ready for sleeping, the mother called out to him and asked him if he wanted some of the snacks. He refused, but she was persuasive, and the kids said they will eat only if he too ate it. Seeing the kid’s love for him, he couldn’t say no, and partook in their pre-lunch snacking.

And after that mini-meal, he set himself at the window seat, looking out at the passing scenery. The gentle rocking of the train, coupled with the cool breeze on his face was enough for him to lose his guard, and as he was lullabied into the ever-waiting sleep, he opened his eyes one more time, and it fell on the same poster he had seen earlier. It was stuck right opposite him on the wall, and now he could read the fine print.

"These miscreants are known to pose as a family, to catch the passengers off guard"

Meenutti

"Meenutti"

Calling her name out loud, Devi went upto her three year old angel, who was presently engaged in digging up something from in between the seats. They had been travelling for over 6 hours, and she couldn't blame Meenu, if the little one acted out like this.

"Ammaaaaaa", Meenu wailed as she was pulled away from her excavation spot. A mother is never supposed to get tired of her child's wailing, but once in a while, all mothers would have wished that the child didnt cry, atleast this once. But not for Devi. She just smiled and hugged Meenutti. And you can easily understand why.

The doctors werent able to actually say what disease it was, but some problem inside Meenutti prevented her from speaking. Whether this problem was physical or mental, nobody knew. Even after hundreds of diagnosis by a qualified array of specialist doctors, the advances of Medical sciences had to bow its head against the play of nature. All it could find out was that Meenutti could understand whatever was said to her, but she couldnt (or wouldnt) give a reply.

It has always been the case, that as long as everything is going fine, man forgets God, but as soon as an insurmountable force stands in his way, he falls at God's feet. The casually devout couple of Suresh & Devi were now spending day after day in temples across the country, pleading with God for letting them hear their child's voice. They were going around bartering; his hair, her ornaments, money, etc for Meenutti's voice.

But no matter how much you are ready to give, unless the right time comes for you to give the right amount, you dont get what you have asked for in return. In their case, it was a local Ayurveda doctor, who told them about Sai Baba of Shirdi.

And that was where they went three days ago. With plenty of hope, they visited the shrine, prayed at the feet of the marble statue of Sai Baba, asked from him a miracle, to make their child talk. They stayed for two whole days; did all sorts of things which was due there, but still Meenutti didnt say anything. And cursing their fates, and wondering if the activities they indulged in their past lives were so bad, Suresh and Devi left Shirdi, with Meenutti.

Meenutti was, as usual, oblivious of what was happening around her. She just wanted to have a Milkybar, but her parents wouldnt buy her one. They had been instructed by the doctors that Meenutti should take no milk in her diet, because of a medicine she was taking.

When Meenutti saw the man with the red hat, selling Milkybar on the train, she started pointing in his direction, and jumping on her feet. In order to keep her quiet Suresh said, "We have no money for milkybar right now." After making a fuss of it for some more time by running around in their little cabin, knocking down water bottles and any stuff she could find, Meenutti settled down in the window, and didnt heed the calls of her parents.

It was at this moment that an old lady, with Sai Baba's photo on a thalli came into their cabin, asking for alms in the name of Baba. Suresh started searching his pocket for some change, but could find only a ten rupee note. Someone who was travelling with them, told that this is common in these parts, and that they shouldnt encourage these people.

Devi felt compassionate to the old lady, and she pressed Suresh to give the ten rupee note. And so, praying to Sai Baba, they put it in front of his photo. From the corner, Meenutti, who was observing the proceedings, thought this was too much. She had been denied her Milkybar for months now, and now her parents were starting to lie to her.

"You have money to give to that old lady you just met, but you dont have money to buy a Milkybar for your own child."

Meenutti couldnt grasp the situation, but Suresh and Devi were in seventh heaven on hearing that complaint from their child. She had talked finally. They thanked the old lady for coming into their cabin, gave her a lot more money, and thanked her again.

But the thing was Meenutti wouldnt speak again. She was still angry with her parents for not buying her that Milkybar, and she just ignored them. And they left her to her own means till they could take her to the doctors agian, and that was how she was excavating something shiny from between the seats.

And so, while picking up Meenutti from there, when she cried out "Ammaaaa", you can see why Devi hugged her, and cried. It was already three years, but that was when she really became a mother, when her child called her "Amma".