Small Things

Rain rained hard, the newly tarred roads looked new and black and the old tarred roads with potholes that were innumerable, like the holes that an inexperienced dosa maker’s dosa made, looked ruined, broken and smashed. The rain drops like silver lines shot down on earth and in it went, never to be seen again. The silver lines made small bubbles in the water in the potholes. The bubbles didn’t form a round, there was too little time for forming a round, and they rather looked like domes, domes of mosques. The sandal colored water in the potholes formed brown- orange pastries once the rain ceased, it stuck like wax to ones shoes if stepped on or in. The thick paste went in deep into the designed dug in roadways on the soles and stayed there like deep ugly secrets that have to be forced out for a light soul, sole. Anything that is sharp and thin would do to force it out, from a knife to a broom stick but not words, how much ever sharp they were. The thick paste if left in the roadways of the sole, it would make you feel them all the time, a bump under your shoed feet, protruding, heavy and irritating. Abandoning those shoes wouldn’t help as the rain would come again and potholes are disappearing nowhere, may be something else would help like not stepping on or in those potholes and not letting the mock brown- orange pastry get under your feet. The wheels of vehicles that go down into the potholes and come out of it paint themselves brown- orange and leave a trail on the new black roads, as a reminder of the past or even a warning of the coming future. The school girls in uniforms wear black slippers, giving their nylon socks and Bata shoes a rest, a monsoon holiday. The boys have brown- orange dots and shapeless patches painted on their shirts and trousers from the muddy afternoon break’s rainy football match. The relentless advertisement on radio and television of Poppy umbrellas leave the common man humming’mazha mazha kuda… ’. The nursery kids refuse to let go of their fancy umbrellas even when they bounce around in crowded buses without a vacant seat or footrest. The biker women cover themselves partly in ridiculous colors of plastic material, raincoats, and the wet sari cling to their legs once they get down from their bikes and walk into their work place. The men on bikes look like mini hulks as the air puffs up their fully covering raincoats. In the traffic signals the travelers in cars listen to the radio over the sound of the wipers. Darkness fills the rooms, humid air shrinks the doorway or enlarges the door making it a strenuous ordeal to close the doors and if closed, open the doors. The cloudy days and dark corridors make the day at college a romantic one. The sound of rain becomes the sound of music and adolescent lovers listen to a lot of music and do a lot of dreaming. The combo of hot chai and parippuvada or dal vada from roadside dhabas tastes tastier but the ice cream shops take a back seat. The washed clothes take days to dry and your favorite jeans are always wet and heavy on you in the rain. Students blame the rain for everything, “why are you late?” “Because of the rain ma’am”, “where is the homework?” “The rain wet it all ma’am”, as if they were inhabitants of a refugee camp with a leaking tent. Wet umbrellas are left open to dry in the balconies, porches, classroom corners, supermarket corners, office corners. Then, gradually the rain ceases, then stops, sun comes back, umbrellas stay home, Bata shoes prolong their leave for some more time, and brown- orange pastries turn into hard cakes, football matches happen in heat, women abandon their raincoats, men are reluctant to let go of their mini hulk form, college is romantic only for the lovers, the dreamers give dreaming a break, the doors and doorways behave better, the jeans dry up, the roads turn grey, the earth becomes dusty, the jingles of Poppy umbrellas fall out of trend, kids forget their umbrellas, students find another excuse for not doing the homework.

I love rain and all that it brings with it, or rather all that I think that rain brings with it. I don’t go around inspecting the world when it rains and see if people are actually humming the poppy jingles, but, I would like to believe they do, even if the Poppy stops manufacturing umbrellas I would still like to believe that people sing that song during monsoon. I think it is so with me because I have this memory of walking through the vegetable market, when I was a kid, near our house and there one of the vegetable vendors happened to be singing this particular song. I remember it so well for some reason and since then without me realizing it I was living with this bizarre belief that people sing this song in the rainy season. It is strange and stupid but I love it and I wish it was true. I also believe that, as you touch a tree bark with your palm the bark from within sends a glowing vibe through your palm into your heart which stays there forever and makes you stronger.

Some things get instilled in your mind and stays there without an effort. You don’t acknowledge them, you naturally over look them. Those small things are always there though, refusing to let go of you, linking you to your origin, your raw true self with that faint, feeble yet unbreakable thread of theirs. Whoever you are, wherever you go, whatever you do, the small things in you decide where you end up, as what.   

Wounded paws

The pain was scrutinizing, deadly. He fell on the ground, his eyes bulged out and through them he saw the innumerable number of human feet running towards him and then it came again, the blow. This time the pain wasn’t as deadly as the first one, this time the blow was just a relief. A relief from the fear that was life…

Statistics say that this year the poachers have done a very good job. Tiger poaching would be the one area in which humans have exceeded far above the expectations. Tigers are killed like they are born to be killed. If tiger teeth are good medicine for one disease, tiger paws are good for another, tail for something else, skin for decoration and I am not very sure about testicles and balls but even that is sold for a good amount of money I am sure. Which part is sold and which aren’t doesn’t really matter does it? A tiger’s life is worth lot of money and that is all that matters. Kill the tiger, skin it, chop it, and sell it. The Chinese are waiting with open arms and tons of money. Money is all that matters. The forest officials work for money and they don’t really bother which way the money comes from. A poacher’s dynasty is surely richer than the government’s and we know all things in the world is inter-related and inter-dependant. Anyway, what happens or how it happens out there isn’t something very well known to me. All I know is that the tigers are killed and the future for them is terribly bad and vulnerable.

When poaching happens in its own efficiency, tigers are also killed when they are spotted in villages one kilometer or so away from the forest areas. “Tiger is a threat to our cattle, to us, to our lives and lively hood”, the villagers say. Yes, they are right. When you decide to make your homes by clearing off forest lands, there would be consequences, it is your fault and don’t you sound so helpless. If tiger could speak the human language it would say “you humans have destroyed our homes, you steal from us, you leave us no place to live in, you intrude in our lives and take away our peace, you gift us fear and we are afraid of you all the time, you torture us, you captivate us, you kill our mothers and leave our kids to die, you are murderers and monsters who conquer our homes and make it your own and evacuate us from wherever we belong, you inflict fear and pain in us so much that we do not know anymore what we are to do once born, our mothers are afraid and so we are, fear is so much a part of our lives that we never for a moment parts with it, you humans stink and we do not want anything to do with you. Why do you come in big noisy vehicles, ruin our soil, take away our peace and torture us daily, every hour of the day? We aren’t doing it to you. You spot one of us anywhere nears the houses that you have built for yourselves in our land, you kill us or you captivate us, and you send us off to zoos. Do you know anything about our lives other than the tricks that you play on us to trap us, to kill us? No, you know nothing and you never will. Even if you do it would not make you any better because your vision is clouded in the blood money that you make out of us. Your lives are wasting this planet. This planet would do much better without your lot.  Our homes are shrinking day by day and we know that you know it better than we do, and that is what which takes away all the hopes that we ever have had. We are living because you are not letting us die. We are your creations aren’t we? We have no right to choice, to freedom, to peace, to contentment, to home, to water, to food, to space, to privacy, to family, to life. We exist because you want us to. We exist for you to kill us. We do not understand what you do with all this money that you make. Do you eat money? Is money the most basic need of yours? No, we know it isn’t. Money is only something that you would like to have so that you can have all the materialistic gains of the human world. For attaining that non-essential luxury of yours you ruin us, you crush our lives. Is that fair? Well, fairness in the human world has undergone a lot of change lately and we haven’t been able to understand it fully. All we can understand is that the world of yours is complex and evil and monstrous. If we had a choice, we would never be a part of it. Our lives in the forests, that you have left to destroy later, have become very uncomfortable. Yes right, you do interfere a lot but other than that, we have very less of an area. We have a territorial issue you see, we need our space and that is all we need but space isn’t available anymore. You have shrunk our forests to such tiny fragments of land, haven’t you? We become independent and move on with lives separately once we are matured and this custom forces us to find our own space which is no more available. The non-availability of space makes us competitors and battlers. We kill each other. Yes, you kill us, we kill each other, and natural causes kill us, all in a way is caused by you, human being. Aren’t you proud of it? Our life is dear to us, and we would like to live and not merely exist for you. Could you please not make your extra big money out of us? Could you not provide us with some space and privacy in our land? Please, we beg you. We beg you to leave us alone.”

Isn’t it such a great luck that animals don’t speak the human language? The world would have been a much better and purer place of course but that is not something we need is it? They have voice and they are intelligent creatures but we the thinking man prefers to leave their voices unheard, to deliberately silence their cries, to crush their voices and lives. We will succeed in this because we are capable of it; we are rational, shrewd and cunning. A couple of decades later, if things go by the same standard, let us proudly then say to our children, “there was once a magnificent creature called tiger. It is no more. It’s gone extinct, just like dinosaurs did. There is nothing as great and majestic as a tiger that trod the face of earth. There is nothing as great a sound as a growl of tiger. There is no such beauty as that of those orange stripes, and there is nothing as royal as a royal Bengal Tiger. You lost your chance of living in the age of tigers because we killed all of them.” Listening to this proud achievement of ours, our children will look up to us and praise us. Just like we praise Jim Corbett for all the hunting he did. Be aware though, when the children gain knowledge and goes back to look up on history, they will realize that Mr. Corbett had took upon tiger conservation as he realized the need of it before he was dead. That is okay though; we can always find ways to justify us, aren’t we good at that?

Is there anybody out there who wants to save tigers for the coming future? Is there anybody who is compassionate? Is there anybody willing to fight the war for them? Is there anybody willing to listen to their cries? Is there anybody who genuinely respects them and their lives? Please, come on let us do it. We still have time to mend our mistakes. They deserve it and this planet deserves it. Let us give a longer life for tigers and forests and thus for our beloved planet. Let us act quick, come on.

Story

Stories make up the world or the world makes up the stories, whichever way, stories are something that the world cannot live without. It is hard to understand many of them but it is always something that all love alike, stories are what a person grows with, dies with. There is a story in every being. Some never heed their stories; some dig in deeper each passing day. Some share their stories, some don’t. Some stories are loved, some aren’t. Some stories help one grow, some stories kill one’s growth. Story is omnipresent, entertaining, intense, powerful, unique yet universal. It takes skill to share a story that engages people. Story tellers are not always loved; their stories have to be entertaining, thought provoking and unique in their way. There is just a thread line gap between a bore and a loved story teller.

I love stories and I see stories everywhere, in every person and every animal. Of course I interpret their stories in my own way and sometimes the stories that I have brought up would have nothing to do with them. I shut it all in my head though because being a bore is not that welcoming. Some stories have the power in them to uplift my confidence, convince me the beauty of it. I share those and I care not if I was a bore, because those stories are worthy enough to be shared. It awes me to think of the innumerable stories that exist in the world. A story is born every moment with every passing breath of every life. All stories are connected, a constantly enlarging web that makes life possible in here.

Train I feel is a living thing that feeds on the stories of those innumerable lives that it carries with it at once. Yes, all modes of public transports carry many at once but I find trains a better patron of stories. Train is alive and real, knower of human emotions, of poverty, of relationships, of bridges and rivers, of slum and sewage. Train is an entity that lives on stories.

Emotions are what that gives story its life. No story is born without emotions. Emotions are the basic requirement for life, for stories. Emotions are complicated, hard to live with at times but impossible to live without. Respecting one’s emotions helps you see the story in them. All emotions are equally great, inevitable and invincible. You cannot beat your emotions, you have no choice but to endure them and live with them. Emotions take their time to move, they make you feel them every second of your life. No, they aren’t cruel, they are just uncontrollable.

Fiction is no lie; it is just a beautified, refined, bettered way of sharing emotions that are true. There is a certain level of truth in every fiction and that is the main reason why fictional stories affect people more than they ever realize. I am a person who is largely affected by the novels that I have read. I have even fallen deeply in love with a fictional character, yes; the lack of true ones might be a reason for that but that is a different story all together.

Story is a traveler and the one who heeds it becomes a traveler.

I summon you!

It was a sunny, lazy afternoon. She stood leaning against the pink shutter like door of her neighbor’s car porch, always aware of the Ambassador that proudly stood behind the door. The door was dusty and had alphabets, numbers and drawings all over it, made by little fingers that were amused by the working of this pink board, trying to imitate their teacher at school who unfortunately had only the black boring board. She was staring at her house, trying to figure out something. Why did the sales men, beggars, rag pickers, those people in white clothes who came as a group and all those random strangers who visited home for something as random always get fooled by her house? What made them think that the two entrances that the house had were of two different houses? It was funny and also annoying because she was always made to run to the other door when those people like fools rang the door bell thinking that it was a different house. She got bored of staring after a moment so she turned around and began drawing on the pink board. Trying her best to match her drawing to a sunflower, she couldn’t ever manage to get all petals to be in a shape and size. Upset by it she left the flower and started on a hut. She was engrossed in the drawing when she heard somebody walking down the road. She turned around hoping to see her brother but found some other man, a sales man. He stepped in through the small front gate and rang the calling bell. Her mother opens the door and tells him that she needs nothing that he sells, he steps out disheartened. A moment later she hears the second calling bell of her house ringing and her mother again opening the door. She stood laughing as the sales man walked away embarrassed…

…

Half awake from the sleep she took in the sound of rain pelting on the asbestos. She liked the asbestos, which her father made the workers fix to not let the rain water fall onto the verandah, for this same reason, it magnified the sound of rain; it added an extra life and power to it. She opened her eyes when her grandmother who was sleeping beside her shifted in her sleep, and was puzzled for a moment. Then she realized that she had slept here with her grandmother instead of the room upstairs that she shared with her brother. This was the better room, she finally decided. It was cool, dark, neat. She thought of the other room, her room. Then she altered her decision and labeled that one the best. It was spacious enough for them to roller skate. She thought about the last time they did roller skating there and suddenly wanted to get off the bed. It was then that the horrifying truth doomed on her. It was a Monday; she had to go to school. She was deeply hurt by the latest realization and was almost in tears. She heard her mother walking in and acted asleep but to no avail. She moved to the next step that is wail out loud. As she did that her grandmother woke up perplexed. A while later the situation worsened as everybody in the household joined in and was obviously against her. She finally gave up and cursed her fate as she got readied by her mother. After a tormenting breakfast along with a glass of milk she, with a heavy heart, awaited the school van to take her away, to that terrible room named LKG- A…

…

All kind of emotions were boiling inside her as she intensely watched the guy, the hero, getting beaten up by the goondas. He was broken and bleeding, she couldn’t imagine the pain that he must be going through. She was hoping him to regain strength and hit the goondas back and win over them but to her dismay it never happened. The guy could do nothing against the goondas. She looked around and saw everybody else watching the film too except for her father who was peacefully sleeping on his easy chair. She was shocked to see him sleeping, how could he sleep when something so terrible was happening? Didn’t any of this affect him at all? She was brought back to the film when the hero screamed out in pain. He was about to die now and still the goondas did not stop beating him. His face was bloodied and looked scary. She couldn’t anymore hold back her emotions and so she let them free. She wept hard, too grieved. It was then that she heard her brother laughing and teasing her for crying, she looked at him through the teary blur. She was so sure that he would be scolded for being so insensitive but to her shock everybody joined in the laughter. They laughed so hard and she felt so embarrassed that she wailed harder. A moment later when the laughter subsided, she wiped her tears away and sheepishly grinned at them…

…

 She was hiding behind the shabby shed in her neighbor’s garden. She was panting after the long swift run that she made in order to hide before he, the police, counted up to 50. She was one among the 5 robbers, all boys except her. She hoped none of them would hide anywhere near her secret place. Once they find this out she would lose the best secret place that she has. Nobody has ever found this spot and she is never caught. She was feeling proud of herself as she hid there, panting. She heard two boys laughing and recognized them by their voice, realized two robbers were down, already. That is when one of the other robbers pounced behind her. She was shocked and let out a gasp. He smiled at her but did not stop to hide there; he jumped over her neighbor’s wall and disappeared. A moment later she was caught by the police…

…

Memories are always there. You just have to summon them when you need them.

   

The inevitable beginning of a journey

To know what you want and to do what you want, the best things that can happen in one’s life.

Knowing it seems to be the hardest, knowing what you want. It is such a stressful and painful ordeal, to know what you want. I think nobody ever knows what they really want! Or maybe they do, I have heard people saying “then, that moment I knew that this was exactly what I wanted to do” well I envy them. I have been trying to figure out what I really want and I haven’t really found the solution, maybe I have but then I haven’t been able to be stable about it. The solutions that I have managed to reach continue to wobble and shift its places. I am not upset about the instability though, I kind of enjoy the wobbling. Every time the wobbling subsides and I am left with an assurance that I can almost reach out stability, I then feel good, the thought in me substantiated.

This process goes on for a while and then one day you feel more stable than you have ever been. You just know what exactly is it that you want, you confirm it, believe it totally.

While all these thoughts were in their process of becoming the final outcome you weren’t exactly doing just the thinking, you were living life somewhere far away, involved yet distant. When the thoughts become that final outcome you find it difficult to stay involved anymore in that real yet distant life that you have always been living, you grow more distant as time passes and that final outcome of your thoughts grow within you to be stronger and larger and hard to be ignored. When something so powerful goes alive in you, you are forced to heed it, fails to kill it and that results in you becoming neither your real life nor the final outcome of your thoughts. You float in the middle, in chaos of emotional conflicts between the two extremes. Leaving one end and running to the other becomes your dream.

When one end is the life you have always known you instinctively tend to fall back in there, out of practice maybe but mostly because you are unsure of yourself, unsure of the life other than the one you have always lived. The period that follows leave you depressed and angered mostly at yourself. Depressed at thought of your incapability to move on, angered at the fear that smothers your dream. You battle the fear by poor means of strategies which fails to get acknowledged and which reduces your quality as a person. Those battles aren’t any battles at all but mere charades, cowardice. The worst fact is that you are aware of it and yet you fail to not charade, you continue to be the coward.

You think of ways to overthrow the fear, the fear to let go. Let go of the life you have always had and still do. The promise, hope, benefit, name, love, support, commitment, refuge that the life had always offered becomes difficult to be neglected. You doubt of your survival without all those offerings. You fear of being exposed in a way that you would be shattered, you fear of failure and humiliation that you might fall prey to, you fear of being deprived of love, of being abandoned. Still, all you dream of is running from this familiar end, seeking the other extreme, renewing yourself, creating a new identity for yourself.

Nothing helps you, no word of comfort helps you, and nobody can help you. You remain as distant as possible from all that you have ever known. You see life through a veil of smoke, smoke that tempts you of your unachieved destination, smoke that constantly remind you of your dream and your cowardice.

Optimism helps you stay alive, helps you maintain the smile, helps you hope, helps you regain your strength and chase your dream, run to the other extreme. You begin running one day, unaware of it initially and eventually miles later you realize that you are actually far away from the beginning point. You smile at the realization; you begin to acknowledge the brightness that had come into your life while you were unknowingly running to the other extreme. You continue running not apprehensive of reaching the destination. You enjoy every moment of the run, because, success is a journey, not the destination.    

Freedom

I am walking on this road, a very familiar road, in fact the only road that I am familiar with. This is the road on which I have done all my walking, running, crawling and kneeling. Everything I know in life is on this road, everything that I have seen and touched is on this road and yet, and yet I don’t want this road anymore; I don’t want to be here or touch or see the things that I have seen and known all my life. How do I go anywhere else, how do I find that way out? Whenever I try seeing the path ahead the road ends dead, and when I turn back something pulls me further into this road, I first struggle to free myself but the thing that pulls me doesn’t let me do that either. I walk further into that road and lose myself on the way, I never bother to find me, and I just walk in leaving me behind. Time passes, I have by then developed a new complex refined me. The new I too begin to want to be away from this road. I am confused. Why does this always happen? Why can’t I just fit in and bring peace within and around? I so let myself obey that smoky vague force which never lets me out and live on losing myself more and more. Time passes, the cycle repeats. Now, all I want is to go away, I am suffocating, I need to go or else I am going to suffocate myself till I can no longer do even that. I beat down the smoky force and run away, I run so fast that the wall encompassing the road passes me in such swiftness as if they didn’t want me there either. I am out of breath, my legs are wobbling and I can no longer run or even remain standing. I fall on the ground and my head goes blank. I don’t close my eyes as I am afraid that the smoky force would win me back. I hope there was somebody to help me, somebody who could show me the way out, I look around and see no one. Not a single soul. Then a while later I see a group of people walking towards me, I am initially scared but then I see them smiling and I am happy. I force myself up and smile as they reach me, but to my dismay, they walk past me, not a single person notices me. They just didn’t see me there. I am disappointed, but I anyway decide to follow them. I resume walking. I walk a few steps and then I realize I am not walking at all but imagining that I am. I shake myself up and try walking only to see before me the dead end of the road. I am broken, tears well up in my eyes, I scream, but I know only I could hear my scream. I also knew that the smoky force was grinning at me from behind. I turn around and stare at it with all the hatred I have never known I had had. I refuse to go near it; I knew it would swallow me if I made a step at it. I settle myself in the middle of the dead end and the ghost figure, the force. I decide to sit there until the dead end clears and offer me a way out. The ghost patiently waits for me on the other side. I am there for a very long time. Loneliness eats me up. I feel miserable, unwanted, unloved. I look at the ghost, it is asking me to follow it, promises me to let me out. I ask the ghost why would it let me out and it says “I would let you out because now you know it’s there with me or nowhere” I am infuriated by that remark, I ask “where would you leave me to if it is there or nowhere?” the ghost, smoky force then says “I would let you out of misery, I would leave you to fit in. I would let you find your way out”. My fury is gone; I say “thank you” but the ghost is no more there. There is no grey force waiting to swallow me up. I am freed. I am free to find my way out, and I guess now I know how. I look up; the grey dull ceiling has disappeared. Now I see the blue beautiful sky, I am overflowing with joy. I am freed. 

Suppression of heaven and the heavenly ones

It was drizzling and the clouds were turning grey or silver. I did not bother to wear a cap or hold an umbrella; I was enjoying the wet climate. I was taking in the smell of the wet earth and green leaves, like a drug it made me light and I guess I was floating on the inside. I was sitting on a swing not swinging but watching my dogs, my darlings in their play time. It is a sight I would love to see each day; it is something so precious to me, something that gives me immense pleasure. There is this particular place where they love to play and I never miss the chance to take them there, just to watch them in action. It is marvelous to watch them, the way they growl at each other and then playfully pounce atop the other.

I love my dogs. They have taught me so much, I have learned so much from them. All my four legged friends have helped me better myself. They have not only loved me with their lives but they have also shown me how empty life would be without them. With love comes respect and with that forms a beautiful relation.

Dogs are pets and human beings find pleasure in having them. A few humans care for them in the way they deserves to be cared but many times the worst happens and the humans find it okay to throw their dogs, pets out of their lives. In India, the developing country, such dogs would be just another stray, about the developed countries I wouldn’t speak of today as I really do not know them well enough. So yeah, those dogs would eventually starve themselves to death or they would get killed under a truck or bus, they would die on the street anonymous and neglected, nobody would know that they once had a name and a master for whom they were willing to die.

This can pass for as an example…

One fine morning the owner finds out that his not very well cared for or loved extra intelligent, innocent pet dog has some sort of sickness in it. The dog would be taken to the hospital, government vet hospitals which hardly know what hygiene is, there the doctor would prescribe a few medicines which the owner would buy the first time and gives the dog for couple of days without fail. The dog might be in pain and it might behave badly or it even might try to bite the owner when he tries to apply the medicine. The owner gets furious at the dog, he forgets that the dog is in pain and he neglects the dog from then on to teach the dog its lesson. The dog is in pain and now its master is upset, it doesn’t know what to do, it is uncontrollably depressed, and all that the dog yearns for is his master’s love even when the pain is killing him. A few days later, when the dog has so badly deteriorated his condition, after long days of neglect and lack of treatment, the owner finds it unbearable to watch. He says that the dying dog makes him feel sad all the time and he doesn’t want to feel sad all the time. The dog now has suffered all the pain and sorrow and the only fact that he finds solace in is that, he is still by his masters side and he knows that he is safe in the house that he has lived all his life. The dog then one day sees his master walking towards him, after many long days of neglect, the dog feels so happy that even with the killing pain and nausea that he feels he wags his tail for his master. The dog wags his tail and right away feels a lot better. He bends his head for his master to pat but only to find that he was being pulled by his leash by his master ordering him to follow. The dog is tensed as he is taken into the car, the dog is afraid of the car; he has never been in a car. The dog goes through excruciating anxious moments as the car driven by his master travels a long time. After a long time when the dog feels slightly better the car halts. The dog expectantly looks at his master; his master doesn’t meet his eyes. The dog has sensed something bad and he panics. The master roughly tugs at his leash and the dog is forced to come out. When the dog is out he tries to hide his face behind his master’s legs, he is scared to be here, and he has never left his home. All the sound of vehicles and people scares him; he is not used to such things. His master starts walking away from the car tugging him by his leash to follow. The dog inevitably follows; he tucks his tail between his legs and starts shaking badly with fear. Then his master ties his leash to a tree and walks off. The dog doesn’t understand anything, he tries to pull himself free, and he starts yowling and yelping. His master doesn’t turn back. The dog do not stop yelping as the car moves away driven by his master. He finds himself alone tied to this tree in a place that scares him so badly. He lies down beside the tree shaking and shivering with fear.

If that dog is lucky some savior human would appear in his life or he might be helped by the gangster pack of stray dogs. If luck does not happen, he would alone try his best to survive by himself, animals never give up how much ever was the conditions against them. Surviving by himself in the street with all the sickness would fail him and death would one day embrace him. He will die there never revealing the story of his life.

Well, this is not always the case but things like this happen, sometimes worse happen. If you are a believer in god it is easy because you can say, ‘god will punish such men for their cruelty’, but if you aren’t then you do not even have such a phrase to live on.

There arise a lot of complaints regarding the stray dogs, of the disturbances they cause the people and the government decides to do something about it and they set up a rule. After setting up the rule the government forgets to carry it over and then the people take over the reins and do the action their way. They do things according to the rules set by the government but the ways that they do it isn’t exactly how the government initially planned of doing it. Once the people take over, things go out of control; nobody knows who is right and who is not. Nobody knows who government is and who is not. Recently a government hospital decided to control the number of stray dogs and for that they spayed a number of bitches. The media covered the news item pretty well and the average animal lovers all were happy.

Nobody knows the number of stray dogs that happens to exist. Nobody knows when litters are born. Likewise nobody knows it when the dogs are killed, how they are killed. A pair of eyes that I trust a lot like my own once witnessed a stray dog captured with the help of noose hit continuously on its skull with a rod until it was dead. So that is also a way in which they are killed, even today. Waste materials is what they live on, the stray dogs. As in our country waste management is so extremely inefficient the strays feast from the heaps of waste that pile up everywhere except on the middle of the road. So it is us who make them, there is no one fault on their side. It is us who make them so don’t we have the right to end them? No, we don’t. We have the right to not make them anymore, but yes that is a right which we would never want to win.

It is horrible to have so many starving creatures in our land. A starving being falls down dead and there our land degrades.

There is suffering happening in each and every dumb creature, voiceless beings. No animal is free to live their lives in this planet, the planet in which the human race is above all. The wild animals suffer the most as they have their forests shrinking down each day. They have nowhere to go but number up within their limited insufficient shrinking area. The striped big cats who rule the forest fail to rule over the cunning human race and end up poached and skinned and packed in cartons piece by piece. The Chinese rule over the world with those minced up tiger pieces that are assumed to be medicines that can cure the human race off their sickness. The elephants that belong in the wild are brought here and beaten up to man’s accord. The celebrities wear t-shirts that say save out tigers and campaign throughout the media while the poachers join hands with the forest officials to make their currency notes. The news papers report each day of considerable improvement that happens in the wildlife and readers feel good. The tourists flood up in the forests and shout and howl their way into the forests in the safari jeeps, takes a few pictures of the irritated tolerating tiger and comes back home and shares the stories of their adventurous trip and preaches for a while about conservation.

With no tiger there is no forest, with no forest there is no life. It is not me saying it but it has been said ages ago in one of the Indian epics.

When humans are killing humans, humans killing animals may not qualify to make headlines. Women are raped, men are murdered, cities are bombed. All this will go on as long as the thinking man does over thinking. Everything has a limit; the suffering too has a limit. One day the suffering ones may decide to revolt and that day would bring the end to this planet, our planet.

Till then I will keep on loving and living for the ones I love with all my life, apparently the ones I love are all the suffering ones.   

   

Lost then retrieved and the sigh of relief (Its all a lie...or fiction)

I walked through the train compartment and peeped over all heads to find my seat number. I found it a while later and was relieved as it was a window seat. I pushed my few luggages underneath the seats and fell heavily on my seat. The window was open and a slight breeze brushed my face. Then I saw, and realized with dread that a group of people had come making a lot of noise, and they were conquering it all, all the seats, even mine and squashing me to the window. Now, there were people beside me, in front of me and over me. They were probably travelling short distance and thus needed no berth. They were all of different shapes and sizes and gushed from nowhere like tumbling pieces of mountain rock. I was suffocating and the heat and sweat of many revolted my tummy. I was nauseating and I realized I would die if my nose was left there taking in all that cocktail of an air. So, I poked my nose out through the window and took in the air outside that was filled with all that an Indian railway track and air was gifted with.

The sky was orange, the sun was hot, the air was humid and the train was packed as I began my journey home one late Sunday afternoon. I stayed like that with my nose sticking out and my body and limbs sandwiched between the train and the very fat Kanchipuram silk sari clad sweaty woman beside me, and a lot of minutes later the train started moving. The woman relaxed a bit as the train started and let out a long sigh and straightened her broad and heavy shoulders cramping me to the maximum. A cry of discomfort escaped my mouth and the woman looked at me with an expression that said “aye! Now where did you come from?” and then it switched to a more helpless and sad face which said “what to do girl, all of us should adjust right?” and she nodded at me as if to make sure I understood and obeyed her. I looked over her gigantic figure to see three other Kanchipuram silk clad over fat women and it doomed on me that I would be squashed no matter how much ever they tried not to. I relaxed and adjusted myself as the line that I was, between the train and the ocean of Kanchipuram silk.

They spoke to each other without a break and the sound of their conversation was capable of even silencing the sound of the train. There were all men opposite us, and I first assumed them to be the respective husbands of the Kanchipuram women, but then later I understood that they were just men that were of the same place as where the women came from and as the women weren’t fit, or they were believed to be unfit, to travel alone, as in without a man accompanying them, these men decided to travel along with the Kanchipuram women, after attending the wedding ceremony which they had been to, to the destination which was common to both sides. As I was stuck there in my seat or rather in a side of my seat I had very little chance for movements. The train was speeding and the wind blew my hair and I was getting tickled as my hair brushed my face and partly blinded my left eye, after a few attempts to try and lift my both arms to tie back my hair failed, I stood up amongst them while all eyes watched me, I  pulled all my hair back and tied it up in a pony, I sat back struggling to find that little space for my butt to fit in and I stared back at them but they were fine with it and after a point of time when the eye contact turned weird, at least for me, I shifted my gaze from the old man’s eyes opposite me and looked out of the window. They resumed their conversations once again and I felt relaxed to have got freed from the spotlight. The language that they spoke was familiar but their slang and the funny tone which they had to their speech baffled me and I almost understood nothing of what they were talking, whenever the Kanchipuram silk lady beside me tried to include me into their conversations all I could do was stare back at her with a stupid stretch of my lips which I hoped could deceive them to be my smile, but every time I did that the woman got upset and left me there with that dumb expression and ignored me for quite a while. I did not exactly want to impress them but I did not want to upset them either. They seemed to be nice and friendly and I didn’t want to be rude, but I felt helpless after a while, as neither did I feel like laughing nor did I feel like talking to them. I found it too stressful to follow their conversation and I wanted to be left alone, but it was hard to do that when so many happy faced people persuaded you to join them. Thus I ignored the view outside and I let myself be entertained with their smiles and laughter and the music of their speech. It was only after an hour or so that they let themselves fall into their afternoon sunny humid sweaty uncomfortable slumber.

 I plugged in my earphones and listened to my favorite songs while the sky with the sun moved closer to mark the end of the day. The sky was turning more orange and the sun was just providing light. The farmlands that we soared past had kids playing and dogs chasing around, the cows were taken home by their men and the birds were in a haste to reach their nests. Journey back home every month is a familiar yet thrilling one and I have enjoyed all of them. The route is always the same, the train too is always the same yet the journeys have always presented me with new experiences because the people I travel along are never the same ones.

I was all stiff after sitting in that cramped space for more than two hours and so I decided to stand near the door of the compartment for a while, on the way I also bought a cup coffee from the coffee guy. The door was open; the wind that came in was so forceful that I found it hard to keep my eyes open, the coffee was hot and full in the paper cup, the door was swaying and I held it with my left hand from banging onto me and the coffee cup in my right hand tilted and the hot coffee was all over me. I jumped in shock as the hot coffee reached my skin through my clothes, I looked into the cup to see if there was anything left and there was half of it still in there. I ignored my coffee stained clothes and sipped the remaining coffee as per my original plan. Thankfully no major stations arrived for more than half an hour and I could be there, enjoying the windy beginning of that another beautiful evening.

As I reached my seat I found that my co-passengers had all woken up and had piled up their entire luggage on one of the lower berths. When one of the men saw me he smiled at me and said something indicating the luggage. I couldn’t really make out what he said so I nodded my head with a smile. The train was slowing down and was about to reach their station. The men took most of their bags and before moving to the door smiled at me and wagged their heads from side to side, indicating that they were going and that they were happy to have met me, so I did the same to each one of them. The ladies too did the same except for the one who sat beside me who touched my face along with the waging and smiling. They were all finally gone, as the train started moving I saw them walking on the platform hurriedly to reach their homes. Only when they moved out of my sight did I realize that I was smiling.

It was dark enough for the lights to be switched on. I was hungry and the dinner that I had ordered had not yet come. The two men who had entered from the previous station were discussing furiously about their work and every few minutes one of their cell phones rang out aloud. After a while, when I was too involved in the book that I was reading and had forgotten about my hunger, the dinner arrived. I continued reading and when I was done with that one chapter I carved into the food that was wrapped up before me.

My tummy was full and my head was sleepy and all that I cared about now was sleep, my good night’s sleep. I needed my blanket to sleep, my blanket was in my bag and my bag was underneath my seat. So I bent down to fetch it only to find the space underneath my seat empty and dark. My bag was gone. The silk sari lady and party had taken my luggage along with theirs. I was numb with shock that I first didn’t realize what all I would lose with that American Tourister bag. When thoughts in my head settled down a bit the things that I had lost and their importance banged their way into my skull. Everything in it mattered and it was all lost.

I didn’t know what to do so I called up my father and then my mother and then I called up my friends and then I again called up my mother and then for a change called up my father and after a while my father called me and we spoke for a while and he spoke out ideas to retrieve my lost bag and when it all turned out too much for me to handle I felt that lump in my throat and I hung up. After a while I called back my father and together we reached a conclusion. The conclusion was not to worry and travel home, which was 12 hours away, and then later what to be done would be decided. And then it occurred to me, my sleep would be ruined as I have lost my blanket too, I should have kept my blanket in my handbag. Even though the conclusion that we arrived told me not to worry, I found worrying inevitable.

I stared out through the window into the dark night and I was filled with a bad feeling. The kind of bad feeling which makes it difficult for you to leave your eyebrows relaxed. I was too immersed in that bad feeling that I didn’t first realize that somebody was tapping on my shoulder, I looked at the man who was standing there who appeared to be a porter. He was wearing a blood red shirt and black trousers, he was trying to smile but there was a quizzical expression trying to hide the smile. It took me a moment to realize that there was something placed by his feet. I noticed it; I noticed my American Tourister and jumped up in delight. The people around me looked at the porter to see what he has got in him to make me so dramatic. I was so happy that my voice came out in a squeak when I asked him “how? How did you get this?”He told me in his broken Hindi which was better than mine, that three men had come to the previous station and they asked him to deliver this bag to a lady who was in the coach S8 in the seat 47. And when I asked him whether he did it for free he grinned at me implying an obvious no. I was so happy to get my bag back that I stood there for a moment looking at it. I was brought back to reality when the porter cleared his throat, he was waiting for me to make his payment, and his eyes spoke so well for him. I took out my wallet and paid him a sum which I thought was reasonable but he found it too unfair. He told me that he had to travel all the way back and it was only fair if I gave him the taxi fair, he could travel by bus too, I thought, but I was too happy and grateful for having got my stuff back that I paid him what he asked and bid him good bye.

I sat back and examined my stuff and was pleased to find it all safe and back in my hands, before zipping it shut, I took out my blanket. In the excitement I called up everyone who knew about my lost bag and told them the happy news.

As I lay down to sleep I thanked those three men who took all the pains to hand my bag back to me. They didn’t have to do it even though it was their fault, but they did it, and things for me were back on track. I couldn’t stop smiling, I listened to some good music before the bumpy, not so deep sleep that nights in a train offered, evaded me.     

Respect

The book was heavy. It was a diary of 2005, old and yellow, struggling to hold all its pages together. I wasn’t too excited to go through it, but I smiled at the man who gave it to me, I knew this book meant the world to him and I had no right to disregard it. That book seemed like the hard copy of that man’s heart and its vigor. There were a lot of photographs and autographs of people whom he admired, he treasured them, he was proud of them. One of the news paper articles that he had pasted in said that he was a graduate in mathematics, when I asked him about it he gave a little laugh and I knew that he was one. His eyes were gleaming with pride as I turned each page and I couldn’t help but smile. When the pages were done I returned him the book, he took it from me and placed it inside his shoulder bag with so much care that only a new born baby would be given. The book was filled with the one or two minutes that various people willed to spare and was generous enough to write down a word or a wish for their avid fan. Two minutes from many successful lives made this man’s achievements and certificates. There was one photograph that I still remember, there was him in it holding an album of himself with various celebrity sports people and behind him stood an old woman staring out from the balcony, his mother. As I looked at that photograph I felt that his mother would have been happier if he had chosen to marry a woman rather than cricket.

He surprised me at first, when he told me what he really was. I had never before met a person who was a fan by profession. I liked his genuine smile and his always alert eyes. I was impressed by the memory he had of many random people’s date of births. I was even more impressed when he showed me a trick in mathematics which I couldn’t solve until he explained it to me. When we parted after making a good long conversation I genuinely had some sort of affection for that old strange man. I had a feeling that I had had this close encounter with a great and unique man.

 That feeling stayed with me for a while, and then it jus vanished away. Just like that. Now when I think of him I feel nothing. Nothing about him inspires me. Nothing of what we spoke has stayed with me. I think I am even capable of disliking him. The trick that he showed me now seems like a cheap bargain that he throws at all who are willing to spare him time. I do not anymore feel like speaking of him for his simplicity but I find him shabby and unclean. I do not find him unique or great or determined but I find him very ordinary. I am the least impressed by what he has done in his life. His diary now seems so foolish and unworthy of his life.

Is it a terrible thing to feel? I guess it is.

Perspectives differ from each individual; also is the same with interests and passion. It is often difficult to understand other’s outlook but it is the best thing if you can try respecting it. Respect is an important word with a great meaning. It brings value and balance in life. There is no creature alive on this planet that does not have a small lesson to teach others, it may not be largely visible but it isn’t invisible either. I now believe so and I am happy to believe so. Life would be much happier if you look only for the positives and just be aware of the negatives.

When I was with that man, talking, I was carried away by his energy. His old voice and the words that it spoke took me to his world and then it seemed wonderful. He spoke highly of his world, of his experiences and I was travelling through them and I was happy. It took me a while before I was back in my own world and time and space. Then when I sat down and unconsciously summoned up the conversations and time that I shared with him, I realized how much I did not understand. How much I differed in my opinion from his. I proved him wrong and senseless with my own perspectives with no more than a moment’s silent thought. Of course, this doesn’t make any difference to the world. Whatever happens in my head just happens in my head and nothing around is changed. But it makes a difference in my world within. I lose. I lose the lesson that he offered. I fail to look for what he had in him to teach me. I become immersed and absorbed further into my own perspectives and I fail to better it, to better myself.

He is a man who lives life doing what he loves. Pursuing his heart wholly, and living in his happiness. He isn’t living for money but his love that he has found in life. He proves that, it is oneself who decides how one has to live, what one has to do and what one is capable of. Nobody else can stop you if there is that love or passion within you but you.

Thank you for the lesson dear sir…

A wish in vain

The new day is born. The birds are awake and have begun their daily rituals; the soil is blissfully embracing the warmth of the sun while the streams gradually turned colder. The magnificent structure at the center kissed the skies with its roof. The lime yellow sun was reflecting all over this beautiful house. The brown tiled roof spread widely, the roof held itself high with all pride and royalty. The house was worn with age but still had the demeanor of a once acclaimed past. The white color of the wall was degraded with stains and brown dusty patches. The pillars which were plenty in number were all made of wood and seemed to have memories of the many generations of people touching, hugging and leaning over it, they were broad, round and healthy looking. The house had only two colors, two rich colors, brown of wood and white of the wall coat. It was wood everywhere. Deforestation, yes, but the beauty of the house shuts ones mouth.

I have always loved such houses. The huge houses which were built by wealthy people of the olden days using wealthy materials, that held on for generations and centuries together. Those houses had a character of their own, as if they withheld wisdom from their existence that dated back centuries. The period of their existence is long, the era of their life. I can’t even imagine what kind of a world it must have been when the first brick was laid by some young laborer to build the house for his master. The history texts indicate that it was a pleasant world only for the wealthy ones, so that means the ancient period had this one thing in common with the now. The period of its life that interests me is when the generation that happened to live in only had the house, the prestigious family name and lots of poverty. Yeah, the very same theme that most of the cinemas portrayed. After all, the movies, books and photographs are the resources through which I know such houses.

From the very little knowledge that I have of such houses and the people and their lives in it, I have developed this bizarre feeling, a sort of regret for having missed out being a part of it. It might have been nice to live in that period, in those houses, inevitably poor, helpless and systematic. Well, maybe not nice, maybe gruesome but that would have been an incredible experience.

There would be a lot of people, family in the house. Eating, sleeping and living together under the same roof. Of course, quarrels would be there and family politics. Male chauvinism would be at its peak. Children wouldn’t be cuddled and cared for that often, and they would grow up smarter and tougher, self made and truly innocent. Ones daily chores were given most importance and there was a rule in the household and it applied to all. Privacy was absent unless one found a secret spot for oneself. One was closer to nature as the surroundings were free for trees to grow. People were bothered by nature’s games as they all depended on nature for their livelihood. Farming was the occupation and soil was part of family. There was no TV and there was time and space to spare for life, for games, for conversations, for laughter, for quarrels, for nature, for rain, for cattle. People had to read to know about world, and their minds worked sharper and their power for imagination was commendable. News travelled around by mouth and people were innocent enough to speak forever about others. Boys defined freedom while girls always had envy powering them. Grandparents dominated and children worked while grand children were free to live yet eager to seek adulthood. Life was to be lived by a simple rule of waking up with the sun and retreating as the same went down, but all the individual lives had their own individual miseries, notions and vengeance to the world, which were mostly hidden within oneself and if otherwise the one was considered a rebel. Life was free from the invasion of technology and there was compassion between humans and earth.

What kind of a person would I have grown to be in that world? It would be a nice thing to know, with the influence of everything but technology I would have been the one I was supposed to be. As today I am somebody who has been made by internet, movies, cell phones, speed cars, Television, air conditioners and so on and so forth. I prefer the other world, but I am forced to choose this world, and to some extent I am willing to fall prey to it. I have had the taste of the techno world and once that happens one is disqualified for the purer world. I feel sorry for myself and that wish still remains in me, though in vain.

Past is past. I now realize the depth of that phrase, the loss that it signifies.

 

Passion

Since a few days my mind is so full with various random but strong emotions, no, not emotions. It isn’t really emotions; they are things, thoughts about those things, no actually thoughts about just one thing. Like a wish, an ambition, urge. Mind is a funny thing, unpredictable, crazy to the extreme. It doesn’t know what it wants, it wants to be everywhere at the same time. Keeps on jumping over things that doesn’t even stand a chance to be mentioned, and stays there for a long while leaving other important things at bay. When it wants something all it wants is that, all it can think of is that. But once something intervenes between the mind and its want, things change, a shuffle happens and all focus turns towards that thing which intervened. This is the same reason why I hesitate to trust my mind. This sole thought that fills my mind now may over a period of time be pushed back by another intervening thought, even though at this point of time imagining such a thing happen is beyond my capability, because this want that fills my mind now is so strong, so powerfully dissolved within me. I am possessed by it. This is a great thing to feel, passion. Passion drives you like nothing else can. You are happiest and the most satisfied when there is a passion burning inside you, a passion that burns more and more as time passes. When an immortal passion lives within you, your appetite for life is at its peak. That is when you end up loving all tastes of life, be it salty, sweet, and chilly or bitter, you will love it and embrace all of their occurrences. I want this thought that fills me today to stay such forever, and ever and ever. I love this!!

Bliss

The horizon was far and the sun was coming up bright and orange and big. The sun can lift your mood like nothing else; the bright orange beauty spot when in rise is the best sight to wake up to. Thus I was standing there looking at it rising, with awe and admiration for the artist who drew it, the sculptor who created it. The kites were circling over the water while the crabs swirled as the waves swallowed them. I watched them hide in their holes while the brave ones peeped out and the other few vanished under the waters. I walked towards the waters, eager for the touch of the rushing waves, the white moving mountains looked magnificent, beautiful. The wet beach sand printed my footsteps, I was happy to leave the imprints of my feet on that earth sand. I was dismayed at first, but then was glad to see my foot prints being washed away by the tide. There was now a possession of mine with the sea. The sea now had a part of this very little me in it, I felt happy, proud to have been born. The sand was soft yet rough and the inner sole of my feet felt full as I walked down. I touched the wet sand with my palm and waited as if something dramatic and extra ordinary was bound to happen, but then I rose up and laughed off my imagination and walked again to greet the mother sea. A partition had formed on the sand, a dark brown part and a lighter brown part, the wet sand and the dry sand. I stood at the partition and waited for the tide to reach me. I was put off as the waves went back before reaching out to me. The voice in my head told me ‘hey fool, do never expect the mother sea to come and touch your feet, go to her, greet her’, I was startled when that voice spoke, for it was loud and clear. I shook my head and walked to mother and then it happened as she embraced me. I walked further in; I wanted to be with the large white water mountains. I was suddenly close enough to that emerging White Mountain, I was terrified with its size, I prepared myself to face it but before I could realize myself I was engulfed by it. I drank in the salt water and coughing and gasping came out of it. I laughed out loud, the experience was touching. I just had a close encounter with the nature, I loved it. As the next wave came over I acquired the skill to float with it and thus I did, this time instead of drowning me the mountain carried me, lifted me and gently placed me down only for the next wave to repeat the same. Thus I did this over and over until I was exhausted. The sun was asking me to retreat, his heat was unbearable. My face was the only part of me that was out of the water and that only part was on fire with his heat. I retreated off the water and kissed the sea for one last time and walked back, crossed the partition and stepped over to the white part. I placed myself under a lone tree and watched the mountains rise and disappear. It was a beautiful sight, like a dream.     

A Memory...

It has been a long time since I have written something. I had been stuck with exams. Too much of studies can hamper your brain and my brain is still in its recovery period. I have got no subject in my mind right now to write about, but what is the harm in trying? So here I am pressing down the keys on the keyboard that seem inviting and meaningful. But what do I speak about?

 Well now comes something…

 I hope you all know that I am a badminton player, and I was one at 11 too. I got selected into the Kerala schools team for the National School Games that was to be held at Mandya. Then Mandya seemed like a place away from world itself, may be because my world was too small and it had only people and places that I have ever set my eyes upon. My memory of that trip is really funny because it consists of a few weird incidents, weird emotions, strange people, yellow lit room, chilly nights and heavy sweaters, dirty toilets, a plate that I had taken along, as per the team manager’s instructions, to eat food from…

Maybe I can get some more if I dig deeper!

That was the very first time I was travelling without my parents, but with heavy luggage. I still can recall the feel of that annoying sore shoulder I had after carrying my kitbag wherever the team went. I was not a trouble to the team I guess because I don’t remember me crying amme kaananam (want to see my mother!) and all. I can recall nothing of the train journey towards Mandya but the first scene that I remember happens in a yellow lit room.

Somebody asks me to find a place for myself to keep my bags and I do so, I look around the room and see picture charts on the wall (yeah it was a class room). Some were torn and some were yellower than the yellow light bulb. Most of them were vegetables and fruits chart, because I remember me selecting the veggies that I love and hate in each chart, but soon I quit it as all charts gave me the same few options to select from. I then sit on a bench and look at my team mates walking, brushing their hair, talking, laughing, shouting, fighting over a place for their bags and what not. All of them were senior to me I guess because I don’t remember making friends with anybody but adding chechi (elder sister-to show respect) post every one’s names. I remember staring at P C Thulasi (she was the best in the team then and one of the best players of India at present) with awe from the bench that I was perched up on. And there that scene ends…

Here I am folding up my track pants by my waist to reduce its length; I am doing it a lot of times as my mirror image disappoints me after each trial. Then I hear somebody shouting my name and I panic but successfully run to the source of that call and I don’t remember getting scolded in front of everyone for being late so that must have not happened or maybe it has…anyway I report wherever the team was supposed to be reported and I think I was helped with my track pants by one of the chechis. We as a team wearing the same color track-suites (I don’t remember where we went walking, but I remember us walking in two lines wearing the same colored clothes) walked with the coaches and managers leading us. Then I remember a tall and lean sir, our manager I guess, giving a talk about discipline and dignity. I remember it only because in the later years we did make a lot of fun about it…

In the next scene it is night. I am walking with my team, probably the friendly ones, holding the plate that I had mentioned before, by my tummy. The footpath looks clean and even unlike the uneven and dirty ones that I am used to in my home town. That interests me and I place each step in a funny pattern. I might have had my own reasons for walking like that but the lady manager found it too annoying that she pulled me by my collar and asked me to walk beside her. There and then began my battle against the lady managers.

We are at the place where the food is available. It was another school where the boys stayed. The food has not got a place in my memory so that mustn’t have been unbearable. I remember playing a game that needed a lot of running; I had loved playing that but once the current goes off and all the lights goes out leaving the ground dark. The coaches cum managers’ starts whistling with their whistles and we all gather at a corner until the light comes. I remember having a lot of fun being the youngest kid over there…

Then there is another funny/embarrassing incident that happened there. All of us had been sitting on a stage cross legged, well I am not sure how others sat but I was sitting cross-legged. I suppose we sat there listening to that tall and lean sir again, but I have no idea of what he must have been talking about. I remember all of us having oranges together. Then it was orange that I was in love with among the fruits, (now it is grape and a year back it had been apple) knowing that there was a chechi who bought me oranges every time we passed a vendor. All in the team had been really sweet to me and I will forever be grateful to them for that.

My parents had given me a mobile phone for the journey so that they could talk to me whenever and wherever it was. It was one of the very first models of the Nokia series and it was huge for a cell phone. It played a loud and irritating tone when somebody called, I was so not used to having something like that with me, and often I failed to realize the source of all the noise, until somebody told me that it was my phone. Well the incident happened when we all (me cross-legged) sat on the stage eating oranges and listening to/hearing our manager. I was so engrossed into the conversations that were happening around me. Open mouthed. Suddenly something somewhere starts vibrating and a loud noise erupts from that something. I, who was sitting cross-legged jumps up that moment and scream/gasp out loud, it takes me another second to realize that it was just my phone ringing and that there were no intimidating ghosts over my head. Again everyone was really sweet to me by just laughing over it and not letting me feel any level of embarrassments…

These are all that has stayed with me from my very first trip alone (without parents). It is funny as there is nothing I can recall of the matches the Kerala team played or what I used to do when my team was on court battling it out (I obviously stood no chance in helping the team to victory). Somehow this first trip gives me only vague details of it…

School nationals are always special. There happens a lot of bonding, a lot of memories, a lot of friends and a strong intimacy with the train that we travel in. I have been in team for five years and each year presented me with variety of experiences. I have had my best time during these events, and I have learned many things. I have also met the few people that have become very special and important persons in my life during these events. I will have no more school nationals to go for because I am no more a school student. School nationals’ will definitely top my charts of favorite experiences.

Well that was not bad for one who is recovering from her writer’s block!!...