Things I’m remembering today (in random order):
Warning: This is a long inane post where I'm just rambling. So if you have better things to do, i suggest you skip this. Ok? Ok.
Here we go.
Sneaking up to the terrace of our house in Kochi and stealthily eating the tamarind that mom had put up to dry. The old lady who used to take care of me.
The biscuits that amma used to make. The heavenly aroma when the lid of the oven is lifted. Closing the windows and balcony door of the room obsessiovely before going to sleep because there was a plague fear going around. I was afraid that a rat would bite me when i was asleep and i would get rat fever.
Dad carrying me and walking back and forth, trying to put me to sleep, when I kept them up all night because of my asthma.
Sitting and giggling with Maari all night, when we were supposed to be studying.
I remember the taste of the tomato rice I had in a hospital in Pune 18 years back, that was prepared by a kind by-stander of my neighbour-in-sickness. I’ve never had tomato rice like that ever since.
I remember running outside the door to cough so that my parents won’t get upset seeing how ill I am.
I remember the angst my dad went through each time I puked after having the terrible terrible syrups that he bought with his hard-earned money.
I remember the red and gold chappal I pestered my folks to buy for me off the roadside in Pune. The first time I saw a softie and fell in love with that twirl that forms on the top of the cone, and felt dejected that I was not allowed to have ice creams.
The kindergarten I went to in Pune, Green Woods, with the green and white uniform. The tiny classrooms filled with kids speaking a language that I just couldn’t understand. The blue colour water bottle that doubled as a snack-box too, in which my mom put mixture and biscuits for me. Running to the gate every afternoon when the bell rang, overjoyed at seeing my mom waiting for me to take me back home, and crying inconsolably when she became a little late one day, and her guilty face that she had made me cry. Amma bribing me to eat food with a bunch of green grapes.
The P&T colony where we stayed, which was the first place I learnt skipping. The rat infestation in the house, and subsequently getting a cat to get rid of it. Spending all the time the cat was there, on top of the sofa, because I was shit scared of it. I developed a lifelong revulsion towards cats after that.
Drawing on the walls of that tiny little house with crayons. All four of us sleeping on one single bed. Finally learning to speak Hindi. The red and white hair bands I’ve worn to school always and had become synonymous with. The colourful beads that I got after a lot of yearning and would painstakingly braid onto my hair all the time.
My mom coming to my school to judge a CCA competition.
The first skipping race I won in school, and going beyond the finishing line in my excitement at coming first (I think the momentum had something to do with it as well. Anyways.)
Going for the interview at K.V.Pangode and answering ‘I don’t know’ when the principal asked me what my father’s name is. (Hey, in my defense, my dad’s name is A.K.Ramachandran, and he went and changed my full name to Divya Nambiar when he enrolled me in school. And at that age, as far as I knew, the name that comes after your name is your father’s name, and since I knew that my father’s name definitely wasn’t Nambiar, I was confused! I was six years old, dammit!)
The white shoes my neighbours from Malaysia gave me ( a hand-me-down), which I absolutely fell in love with because it had (gasp!)heels and (another gasp!) a little bow, and I wore it with anything and everything.
The lovely grape wine that my grandma used to make every summer holiday. The big book of Panchathantira that she used to read out loud to us. The milk powder that w used to steal from her shelf.
A rumour that was doing the rounds in my native place one holiday, that there was a muslim woman who’s husband was away in Dubai, and she was so very beautiful, but promiscuous, so when her husband found out about her little side-show he threw acid on her face. That she roamed the town in a burqa, walking into houses and lifting up her veil, and while people stood shocked at her scarred face, she went inside and robbed them. I swear, I’m not making this up. You can check with my sister if you want. That summer, every time I heard the gate of my grandma’s house open, my heart would stop for a sec, and I would refuse to step out once the sun went down.
Falling into the water tank in school in 4th standard, being pushed in actually, me and a friend. Sitting wrapped in a shawl, shivering, and breaking down when I saw my sister coming to take me.
A very very very (I cannot stress on it enough) silly mallu movie, in which the heroine is a model, and has signed a contract with the agency that she won’t get married or have babies for three years or something. So when her folks force her to get married to her cousin, she strikes a deal with the guy that they won’t have a ‘normal’ physical relationship (How innovative na). But in his prime, he can’t control her anymore and slips a medicinal drug into her bittergourd juice one day, one thing leads to another and then there is thunder a lightning and all the required symbolism for sex. Needless to say, she gets pregnant(Yes. The superman mallu guy). The women of the house go nudge-nudge wink-wink giggle-giggle, the girl is distressed, blah blah blah.. Melodrama ensues where she tries to abort the child and all that.
I have just one word for them. Dude, contraceptive.
Zipping around town with my sister on her kinetic, going to movies, restaurants, going to watch her fashion show. The little round pillows that mom had made for us, and then when one of them wore off, fighting for turns to hug the other one and sleep. (Chech, I know you’re smiling while reading this). Watching her give her campaign speech for School Pupils’ Leader, and then when she won the election, feeling very proud and high and mighty that she was my sister. Wearing her clothes, even if they were a little big for me.
The Onam and new year parties in Woodlands. The powercut fun on the fourth floor spiral staircase.
The poem ‘Oh captain my captain’, that me and chechi have recited so many times in competitions and won first prize for. The topic I got when they were having selections for Deputy School Pupils’ Leader Primary Section (The topic was ‘National Animal of India’). The investiture ceremony. Going up to receive the badge.
The group dance practices for onam and annual day. I can still distinctly remember the ache in my thighs the first few days of Thiruvatira practice.
Consistently failing in my Physics and Chemistry papers in 11th and 12th. The tears in my father’s eyes when the board results came out. The tension at home. The support that everyone gave me so that I would not just be another statistic in the suicide cases in the city.
My first crush, my first relationship, the joy of being a teen.
The song ‘O mere sapnon ke saudagar’ from a Pooja Bhatt movie, the name of which I forget. (And the freakiest thing happened. I was thinking of it and I got into a CCD, and the instrumental of this song was on!) Dancing to it along with Deepthi Chechi and pretending to be a princess or a fairy or some such thing.
My first day in college. The bus rides with Sree. The Magic Oven trips with Sree and Neethu. The side bench, the second last bench.
The chicken biryani that mom makes, which can kick the ass of any biryani in the world (for me at least).
Dad bringing home sweets every month the day he got his salary. Going out to have Chocolate Sharjah at Eden Park.
Chechi and me playing with Abu’s brand new toys.
The smell of mehendi. Mmmm…
The thrill of being in love. The trauma of breaking up.
Going for The Last Samurai on the day we got our hall ticket. Walking in fifteen minutes late and leaving half an hour early. Having no clue what we were watching.
The taste of the chicken pulao in Royals. The freezing studio where we watched documentaries. The day mom and dad returned after leaving me in H’bad. Mom crying, the rain…
The freezing Hyderabad, more specifically HCU, winters. My first breezer with Thusha and some others in the hostel room. The prolonged chai and banana chips sessions. Hugging Hosku after fighting with her. Arun holding on to the cycle and running behind it while I attempted to ride it for the very first time.
My purple Miss India cycle.
The smell of water that’s been boiled in a huge vessel over burning wood. Playing Scrabble with Mumsy darling till 1 in the night. And she spelling words like Ariel and Rin. :)
The rain on the day I finally passed my drivers’ license test.
Necklace road early in the morning. Our Sundays… Necklace Road station.
Uncertainty. Award-winning Majjiga Pulusu. Goonja sa hai koi Iktara.
Rambling. And rambling. And rambling…
February 4, 2011
December 30, 2010
That strange thing called memory...
It’s terrifying, the thought of not being able to remember anyone or anything that has been an important part of your life. It scares me more than the thought of dying alone.
I was randomly reading online yesterday, when I suddenly remembered something I wanted to read about, and by the time I had opened a new window to search for it, I had already forgotten what it was. In two seconds. I had blanked out. I had absolutely no clue what I’d been wanting to search, and I had a mild panic attack. For some strange reason, I was suddenly reminded of my late grandfather, my mom’s dad, who had Alzheimer’s towards the end of his life.
I’ve never told you about my grandfather, have I? A finer man, I’m yet to come across. P.V.Damodaran Nambiar, even the name commands respect. No, he was not like the quintessential grandfather in your huge old ancestral home, plump with a booming voice and an ever-forgiving nature, who chewed betel leaves and gave you toffees. He was tall, more than 6 foot tall, thin as a reed, with pure white hair and beard, ala M.F.Hussain. People on the roads would point to him in wonderment, thinking he was M.F.Hussain. For as far back as I can remember, he’d been like that. He was soft spoken and walked with a slight hunch. He was quick to scold if we did something he didn’t like, but just as quick to appreciate if we did something good. He had nimble fingers, which I admired a lot. I was his favourite, because I was the youngest. He was my favourite among all my grandparents, don’t know why. He was also the most respected among his family members, and the most loved among friends.
He had had a tough life, with being the eldest of a large number of siblings and his father passing away quite early on. He took care of everyone.
And for me, maybe I loved him so much- I think I was more in awe of him than anything else- because I used to love the way he spoke English, weird as that may seem. I feel- and would strongly like to believe- that I picked up the love for the language from him. After he passed away, when we were at our native place, my uncle and I were cleaning up the old house, when we found a stack of old diaries belonging to him. Even the daily entries, the mundane points, were so impeccably written. And his handwriting was like perfect italics font.
Old age struck him with a vengeance, having no mercy. He had varicose veins, bronchial ailments, cataract, and the worst of them all, dementia, which the doctor told was the starting of Alzheimer’s. Oh it’s a terrible thing to happen, dementia. It draws away from you, slowly, painfully, what was rightfully yours- your memories- and leaves you with a ghost of an old man. Towards the end, he had no memory of us, he didn’t recognize any of us, except for in flashes. He lived in the past. The past where he was younger, maybe happier, with all his children with him, his beloved three children who he loved so much, and who loved him just as much. The past where he was a handsome young man- he was just as handsome when he was old- riding his bullet and picking up his daughters from school.
I had spent an entire summer with him, my grandma, my mom and my uncle, in that rambling old house in Nadapuram. I’ll never forget that summer, I don’t wish to, because it was then, when my grandfather could no longer remember me, that I grew more fond of him. I developed a new affection and respect for him. We all used to sleep in the huge master bedroom upstairs, some on bed, some on floors, because we had to constantly keep an eye on him. He would wake up suddenly, walk to the window, mumbling, holding on to the bars and looking outside into the night, refusing to come back to bed sometimes, and suddenly he would look at me, smile, and I would see a flash of recognition in those beautiful wise eyes, and I would hopefully smile in return, hopeful that at least now, he would pat my head and call me Ammu..But just as soon as it came, the moment would be gone. And I remember thinking, I wish I were a part of his past, at least then he would remember me.
What would it be like, to not remember anything anymore? To be surrounded by people who you don’t recognize anymore? To be bathed and fed like a baby, after living a full, active life where you never depended on anyone for anything? To wake up suddenly in the middle of the night and not know what time of the day it is, because time is not really a factor for you anymore? It’s terrifying. I always used to wonder, what would he be thinking, what is going through his mind, if only I had a way to know.
I have seen the pain my mom and everyone else has been through, taking care of him. He reached a point where he couldn’t even go to the bathroom on his own. It’s not easy, you know, taking care of your aging parents the same way they took care of you when you were a baby. There’s no excitement and joy and pride. There’s just a lot of sorrow and pain, and sometimes sympathy, for this person who was your hero at one point of time. But every hero falls sometime or the other, doesn’t he? I hope I have the courage to do it when the time comes, god forbid.
Dear Manavi, I wish you knew him, your grandfather, our ‘velyacchan’. A better man hasn’t walked this earth*, and never shall.
* From Anita Nair’s book, The Better Man.
I was randomly reading online yesterday, when I suddenly remembered something I wanted to read about, and by the time I had opened a new window to search for it, I had already forgotten what it was. In two seconds. I had blanked out. I had absolutely no clue what I’d been wanting to search, and I had a mild panic attack. For some strange reason, I was suddenly reminded of my late grandfather, my mom’s dad, who had Alzheimer’s towards the end of his life.
I’ve never told you about my grandfather, have I? A finer man, I’m yet to come across. P.V.Damodaran Nambiar, even the name commands respect. No, he was not like the quintessential grandfather in your huge old ancestral home, plump with a booming voice and an ever-forgiving nature, who chewed betel leaves and gave you toffees. He was tall, more than 6 foot tall, thin as a reed, with pure white hair and beard, ala M.F.Hussain. People on the roads would point to him in wonderment, thinking he was M.F.Hussain. For as far back as I can remember, he’d been like that. He was soft spoken and walked with a slight hunch. He was quick to scold if we did something he didn’t like, but just as quick to appreciate if we did something good. He had nimble fingers, which I admired a lot. I was his favourite, because I was the youngest. He was my favourite among all my grandparents, don’t know why. He was also the most respected among his family members, and the most loved among friends.
He had had a tough life, with being the eldest of a large number of siblings and his father passing away quite early on. He took care of everyone.
And for me, maybe I loved him so much- I think I was more in awe of him than anything else- because I used to love the way he spoke English, weird as that may seem. I feel- and would strongly like to believe- that I picked up the love for the language from him. After he passed away, when we were at our native place, my uncle and I were cleaning up the old house, when we found a stack of old diaries belonging to him. Even the daily entries, the mundane points, were so impeccably written. And his handwriting was like perfect italics font.
Old age struck him with a vengeance, having no mercy. He had varicose veins, bronchial ailments, cataract, and the worst of them all, dementia, which the doctor told was the starting of Alzheimer’s. Oh it’s a terrible thing to happen, dementia. It draws away from you, slowly, painfully, what was rightfully yours- your memories- and leaves you with a ghost of an old man. Towards the end, he had no memory of us, he didn’t recognize any of us, except for in flashes. He lived in the past. The past where he was younger, maybe happier, with all his children with him, his beloved three children who he loved so much, and who loved him just as much. The past where he was a handsome young man- he was just as handsome when he was old- riding his bullet and picking up his daughters from school.
I had spent an entire summer with him, my grandma, my mom and my uncle, in that rambling old house in Nadapuram. I’ll never forget that summer, I don’t wish to, because it was then, when my grandfather could no longer remember me, that I grew more fond of him. I developed a new affection and respect for him. We all used to sleep in the huge master bedroom upstairs, some on bed, some on floors, because we had to constantly keep an eye on him. He would wake up suddenly, walk to the window, mumbling, holding on to the bars and looking outside into the night, refusing to come back to bed sometimes, and suddenly he would look at me, smile, and I would see a flash of recognition in those beautiful wise eyes, and I would hopefully smile in return, hopeful that at least now, he would pat my head and call me Ammu..But just as soon as it came, the moment would be gone. And I remember thinking, I wish I were a part of his past, at least then he would remember me.
What would it be like, to not remember anything anymore? To be surrounded by people who you don’t recognize anymore? To be bathed and fed like a baby, after living a full, active life where you never depended on anyone for anything? To wake up suddenly in the middle of the night and not know what time of the day it is, because time is not really a factor for you anymore? It’s terrifying. I always used to wonder, what would he be thinking, what is going through his mind, if only I had a way to know.
I have seen the pain my mom and everyone else has been through, taking care of him. He reached a point where he couldn’t even go to the bathroom on his own. It’s not easy, you know, taking care of your aging parents the same way they took care of you when you were a baby. There’s no excitement and joy and pride. There’s just a lot of sorrow and pain, and sometimes sympathy, for this person who was your hero at one point of time. But every hero falls sometime or the other, doesn’t he? I hope I have the courage to do it when the time comes, god forbid.
Dear Manavi, I wish you knew him, your grandfather, our ‘velyacchan’. A better man hasn’t walked this earth*, and never shall.
* From Anita Nair’s book, The Better Man.
December 10, 2010
The girl who grew up...
I was on my way to work today morning, walking along the winding little lane peppered with tiny little houses that connects my house to the main road. I take that same road every morning, and everyday, I see a lot of activity along that route. Women washing vessels and clothes, men leaving for work on their cycles, little girls with neatly plaited hair setting out for school, goats, chickens, an eerie little wayside temple with a black-stone idol of Shiva, kirana stores (a quintessentially Indian phenomena), etc.
Today morning, while I was walking, I saw one little girl, with a blue colour dupatta on her head, tied into a neat long plait. She must’ve been about 5-6 years old.
Pretty much the same age, that I used to do such stuff. You wouldn’t believe if I said it now, but as a kid, I loved dressing up and doing girly stuff. I was 5 when I cried to dad to buy me my first lipstick. And the doting dad that he is, he got me one. I still remember it, it was red in colour, and it used to act as my lipstick cum eyeshadow cum blush, and sometimes my sketchpen and crayon when I wanted to draw (err..alrite! scribble) on the walls. I had such a tough time throwing away the empty tube..sigh..
I used to have chocolate boxes filled with my accessories- earrings, chains, bangles, hairclips and what not. Every dress had matching accessories. There was a red and gold chappal that I really took a fancy to, bought from a street in Pune all those years ago. I used to believe that it went with any dress that I wore. It was hideous, when I look back at the photos now! But that was an age where I felt that anything bright and shiny was beautiful. :)
Sunday afternoons, when mom, dad and my sis were having their routine siesta, I used to get to work. Anyone who used to come down from the US or Dubai, used to get me a make-up kit, so well-known was my fondness for it. So on Sunday afternoons, I would take out these boxes, meticulously put on the make-up (and trust me, I was pretty good at it. I knew what all had to be applied where, and in what amount), then I would take out my favourite green dupatta with the gold sequins at the edges, pin it up safely on to my hair, and plait it. That dupatta was like a friend, I always had it with me. Boredom was never an option for me, as long as I had my dupatta and make-up boxes and ‘other accessories’, as my mom used to call it. :)…
I miss that girl…somewhere along the way, adolescence took its toll, and scorn for that little girl set in. I abandoned all those accessories that were part of my girlhood, and opted to go for what was in style. I stopped wearing bangles and bindis and big earrings. My mom still asks me, why I stopped wearing all that…When I saw that girl today, all those memories just rushed back, and the first thing I did was call up my mom and tell her. Because that lady has put up with all that the most, and nobody would understand it better. And you know, my mom has not thrown away a single one of those things that I cherished- right from the boxes of ‘fancy items’(just like supermarkets give me a high today, fancy stores used to be my fascination then), ribbons, hair-bands, clips, beads, to the bag of clothes that I’d stitched for my Barbie dolls( I was an aspiring fashion designer at one time)- everything is intact. She never asked me whether she can throw them away or not- she just continues to preserve them for me. For what reason, I know not.
This post is dedicated to mom, and to my dad and sis, for never making fun of that little girl or forcing her to grow up sooner than she ought to have.
Sometimes I wish I never had...
Today morning, while I was walking, I saw one little girl, with a blue colour dupatta on her head, tied into a neat long plait. She must’ve been about 5-6 years old.
Pretty much the same age, that I used to do such stuff. You wouldn’t believe if I said it now, but as a kid, I loved dressing up and doing girly stuff. I was 5 when I cried to dad to buy me my first lipstick. And the doting dad that he is, he got me one. I still remember it, it was red in colour, and it used to act as my lipstick cum eyeshadow cum blush, and sometimes my sketchpen and crayon when I wanted to draw (err..alrite! scribble) on the walls. I had such a tough time throwing away the empty tube..sigh..
I used to have chocolate boxes filled with my accessories- earrings, chains, bangles, hairclips and what not. Every dress had matching accessories. There was a red and gold chappal that I really took a fancy to, bought from a street in Pune all those years ago. I used to believe that it went with any dress that I wore. It was hideous, when I look back at the photos now! But that was an age where I felt that anything bright and shiny was beautiful. :)
Sunday afternoons, when mom, dad and my sis were having their routine siesta, I used to get to work. Anyone who used to come down from the US or Dubai, used to get me a make-up kit, so well-known was my fondness for it. So on Sunday afternoons, I would take out these boxes, meticulously put on the make-up (and trust me, I was pretty good at it. I knew what all had to be applied where, and in what amount), then I would take out my favourite green dupatta with the gold sequins at the edges, pin it up safely on to my hair, and plait it. That dupatta was like a friend, I always had it with me. Boredom was never an option for me, as long as I had my dupatta and make-up boxes and ‘other accessories’, as my mom used to call it. :)…
I miss that girl…somewhere along the way, adolescence took its toll, and scorn for that little girl set in. I abandoned all those accessories that were part of my girlhood, and opted to go for what was in style. I stopped wearing bangles and bindis and big earrings. My mom still asks me, why I stopped wearing all that…When I saw that girl today, all those memories just rushed back, and the first thing I did was call up my mom and tell her. Because that lady has put up with all that the most, and nobody would understand it better. And you know, my mom has not thrown away a single one of those things that I cherished- right from the boxes of ‘fancy items’(just like supermarkets give me a high today, fancy stores used to be my fascination then), ribbons, hair-bands, clips, beads, to the bag of clothes that I’d stitched for my Barbie dolls( I was an aspiring fashion designer at one time)- everything is intact. She never asked me whether she can throw them away or not- she just continues to preserve them for me. For what reason, I know not.
This post is dedicated to mom, and to my dad and sis, for never making fun of that little girl or forcing her to grow up sooner than she ought to have.
Sometimes I wish I never had...
December 6, 2010
To throw or not to throw...
I’ve never been a fan of packing. I’ll avoid it as far as possible and put it off till the last minute. Earlier, when we went on our annual summer vacations to our native place, mom used to take care of the packing. Clothes used to be neatly piled on the bed first, then packed, according to ‘how soon will we need them’ and ‘how often will we need them’. The packing used to go on till late at night, because, by principle, none of us travel light, except dad. Mom always carried extra clothes, in case it rained, even in summer. I won’t laugh at that, coz even I’ve inherited that streak. I always end up packing for 5 days on a two-day trip. Mom never used to let us touch the bag and used to personally take out whatever we needed and give us, because if we go through it, there’s just a jumble remaining. I hate folding clothes. I tend to roll them up in a ball or something resembling folds and push it into my bag. And then I rummage through the pile, much like those goons who ransack people in movies. No kidding. And my sister’s no less. Fortunately for her, she married a guy who loves packing.
Anyways, in case you’re wondering what brought out this onslaught of packing memories, let me elaborate. I recently shifted my house to another one in the city, with a roommate. I had been living alone for more than a year, first in a 2bhk, then in a 1bhk. One major thing you need to keep in mind if you’re thinking of taking a house is:- you will accumulate a helluva lot of stuff, especially if you’re a hoarder like me. I cannot throw stuff away, another thing I’ve inherited from mom. It’s the most difficult thing in the world for me. I may not have sentiments attached to it necessarily, but I will always think of some possible future use of it when I consider throwing it away. And there it goes back to where it was hibernating since 1922. Back when I was a kid, I once remember fighting with dad coz he wanted to throw away one of my old, ragged, beyond-its-expiry-date doll with no hair and one hand missing, during one of his spring-cleaning sessions. I won.
One of my friends was helping me out with my packing this time. The name I earned at the end of it- aakri (which roughly translates into scrap/scrap-collector ). And rightly so, I have to grudgingly accept. By the end of the packing, I had five huge cartons, two suitcases, two bags, plus a lot of plastic packets filled with odds and ends. All this for just one person! What will I do once I start my own family! I’ll have to order an entire train to carry my stuff! And this too, after I’d given off a bunch of old clothes away. I had to arrange for a tempo to move my stuff.
Now the next huge task awaits me. Unpacking the stuff and putting it away in their rightful places. And now I’m back in a 2bhk. More space. More opportunities to accumulate.
I sincerely hope my roommate likes to throw things away...
Anyways, in case you’re wondering what brought out this onslaught of packing memories, let me elaborate. I recently shifted my house to another one in the city, with a roommate. I had been living alone for more than a year, first in a 2bhk, then in a 1bhk. One major thing you need to keep in mind if you’re thinking of taking a house is:- you will accumulate a helluva lot of stuff, especially if you’re a hoarder like me. I cannot throw stuff away, another thing I’ve inherited from mom. It’s the most difficult thing in the world for me. I may not have sentiments attached to it necessarily, but I will always think of some possible future use of it when I consider throwing it away. And there it goes back to where it was hibernating since 1922. Back when I was a kid, I once remember fighting with dad coz he wanted to throw away one of my old, ragged, beyond-its-expiry-date doll with no hair and one hand missing, during one of his spring-cleaning sessions. I won.
One of my friends was helping me out with my packing this time. The name I earned at the end of it- aakri (which roughly translates into scrap/scrap-collector ). And rightly so, I have to grudgingly accept. By the end of the packing, I had five huge cartons, two suitcases, two bags, plus a lot of plastic packets filled with odds and ends. All this for just one person! What will I do once I start my own family! I’ll have to order an entire train to carry my stuff! And this too, after I’d given off a bunch of old clothes away. I had to arrange for a tempo to move my stuff.
Now the next huge task awaits me. Unpacking the stuff and putting it away in their rightful places. And now I’m back in a 2bhk. More space. More opportunities to accumulate.
I sincerely hope my roommate likes to throw things away...
October 7, 2010
Back on track...
It all started on a summer morning in May 2009.
I stood on platform number one of Lingampally station, waiting for the train to get to Rajbhavan Road. My first day at my first job.
The train came, I got in, got off at Necklace road station after 45 minutes, and walked to my office. That same afternoon, after an uneventful first day, I took a train back to Lingampally.
I think, I can safely mark that day, May 1st 2009, as the day when my tryst with the MMTS began.
What followed were days of running for the train (I’m not exaggerating), waiting on the platform endlessly, getting worried then pissed off, because first of all, I was taking a later train, and that itself was late. You start noticing the same people everyday, a pattern sets in. If I see a certain bunch of women on the platform, I know the train hasn’t come yet. If there’s a passenger train on platform one, I know my train is late by fifteen-twenty minutes.
One of my friends used to call the 9:10 train my boyfriend. :) …I would wake up late, rush through coffee and getting ready, and I would literally run to the station. Every single day, I used to test my luck, by leaving from home 2-3 minutes late, and believe me, even two-three minutes count a lot. I would reach the platform out of breath, and there it was, waiting for me to arrive. I would get in, and the very minute, it would leave the station. And I would sit at almost the same seat in the same ladies’ compartment every day. Nothing else would do. To the point that if I couldn’t get my usual seat, I had an impending sense of doom, that my day would not go well if I sit somewhere else. My entire day used to be planned depending on the train-timings. When I took out the timetable to check the timings, my friends used to say that I’m taking out my Bible. :)
I’ve read so much sitting in the train, coz that’s the only time I used to get to read.
There would be women jabbering away about the price of rice and dal, their children’s examination, husband’s promotion.. All one has to do is lend an ear. Full entertainment.
Sometimes, workers would get in, with their duplicate phones, and Altaf Raja would be belting out ‘Tum tho thehre pardesi, saath kya nibhaaogeeeee..’ So many times I’ve wanted to snatch their phones and throw it away..
The return journey was not as easy. The trains at night would be a minimum of half an hour late. I used to think, my entire life would probably pass just waiting for the ‘sir’ to arrive. And then it would waddle along at its own sweet pace, and then unashamedly stall in between for another twenty minutes. By the time I get home, it would be two hours since I left office. Necklace Road station is where I spent a lot of time brooding, laughing, crying, thinking, looking at the lake in the distance. The benches there would know…
There was a time when I reached the station 9:15 at night, to take the 9:30 train. It came at 10:30 finally. And I reached home at 11:15, all alone. I still don’t know how I survived that day. I guess living alone hardens you to a large extent. Another time, I reached the station to take the last train back- 9:57pm. The station was pitch dark,no electricity, with just a handful of people, and I don’t remember seeing any women. There were no policemen either. Somebody passed a comment. I actually prayed that day. I promised myself and god I wouldn’t try to do such brave stupid things ever again.
The best thing about travelling by public transportation is that you get to see a lot of people, all ages and classes. And some you can never forget. Like there was this one girl I used to see everyday taking the same train as me in the morning, and sometimes the same one back. She was very pretty, and probably had been married recently, going by the traditional bangles on her slender wrists. She was very beautiful, and I always used to stare at her. And then a few months later, I saw a small bump forming on her stomach. For some inexplicable reason, I was silently happy for that strange girl. Then one night, I was in the train back home, and she got in from the next station. Her tummy had grown a bit more by then. It was pretty late, around 9 in the night. She sat looking out of the window. There was fatigue written on her face. Then slowly, her eyes started closing due to the fatigue, and her head was rolling from here to there. I felt sad for her, I don’t know why. Wasn’t there anybody to come and pick her up from office, especially when she was pregnant? Why was she having to work in this condition? Did her husband not treat her well? Did she have to go back home now and cook dinner? There were so many questions in my head. Her beauty seemed very melancholic at that moment. I hope, wherever she is now, she’s happy, and so is her baby.
Another time, a lady got in with her daughter and occupied the seat opposite me. She was a daily wage labourer, I could make out. Thin as a reed, with an excuse of a sari covering her, she looked as though she hadn’t eaten and slept in days. And her little daughter, not more than four years old, holding her mother’s hands and sitting, her innocence still intact. I looked at them for a while, then resumed looking out of the window. After a while, I could feel somebody’s eyes on me. I looked up to see the little girl looking at me curiously, and she suddenly looked away when I caught her eye. So I decided to stare at her, and she kept darting glances at me, then she held my gaze. We looked at each other for a few seconds, and I smiled at her. I got the sweetest smile in return. I can never forget it. I rummaged in my bag and found an apple and gave it to her. She took it without hesitation and gave me another big smile. She may not have learnt yet to say thank you, but that smile was equivalent to a million thank you’s. After a while, I noticed that the lady had started crying. Weeping, her chest heaving. Her daughter, not knowing what was happening, kept looking at her, holding her hand. Then she rested her head on the little girl’s lap, and that innocent little thing was gently stroking her mother’s head, comforting her like only a kid can. The lady then took out a pen she had and scribbled something on the girl’s hand. There was a moment of terror in my heart. What is she writing down? Why is she writing it down? Is it a number that people can contact and hand over the girl to when the mother’s body is discovered? I don’t know…I was scared for the little girl. A little while later, I looked up from the book I was reading, and they were gone..just like that. I don’t know when they got down, which station..I only remember praying for that innocent little thing who had gifted me a beautiful smile.
After travelling by train for a year, my office shifted, and it was getting difficult to take the train anymore. So I started travelling by road. It saved me time. But it was just not the same. And now that I’ve changed jobs, and because I’m tired of fighting with the f*&%^#g auto drivers, I’ve decided to resume my rendezvous with my old flame again. I’m prepared to wait endlessly. I’m looking forward to get some reading done. My daily dose of exercise (running) has started. And I wonder why I don’t put on weight.
Yup, I’m back on track.
I stood on platform number one of Lingampally station, waiting for the train to get to Rajbhavan Road. My first day at my first job.
The train came, I got in, got off at Necklace road station after 45 minutes, and walked to my office. That same afternoon, after an uneventful first day, I took a train back to Lingampally.
I think, I can safely mark that day, May 1st 2009, as the day when my tryst with the MMTS began.
What followed were days of running for the train (I’m not exaggerating), waiting on the platform endlessly, getting worried then pissed off, because first of all, I was taking a later train, and that itself was late. You start noticing the same people everyday, a pattern sets in. If I see a certain bunch of women on the platform, I know the train hasn’t come yet. If there’s a passenger train on platform one, I know my train is late by fifteen-twenty minutes.
One of my friends used to call the 9:10 train my boyfriend. :) …I would wake up late, rush through coffee and getting ready, and I would literally run to the station. Every single day, I used to test my luck, by leaving from home 2-3 minutes late, and believe me, even two-three minutes count a lot. I would reach the platform out of breath, and there it was, waiting for me to arrive. I would get in, and the very minute, it would leave the station. And I would sit at almost the same seat in the same ladies’ compartment every day. Nothing else would do. To the point that if I couldn’t get my usual seat, I had an impending sense of doom, that my day would not go well if I sit somewhere else. My entire day used to be planned depending on the train-timings. When I took out the timetable to check the timings, my friends used to say that I’m taking out my Bible. :)
I’ve read so much sitting in the train, coz that’s the only time I used to get to read.
There would be women jabbering away about the price of rice and dal, their children’s examination, husband’s promotion.. All one has to do is lend an ear. Full entertainment.
Sometimes, workers would get in, with their duplicate phones, and Altaf Raja would be belting out ‘Tum tho thehre pardesi, saath kya nibhaaogeeeee..’ So many times I’ve wanted to snatch their phones and throw it away..
The return journey was not as easy. The trains at night would be a minimum of half an hour late. I used to think, my entire life would probably pass just waiting for the ‘sir’ to arrive. And then it would waddle along at its own sweet pace, and then unashamedly stall in between for another twenty minutes. By the time I get home, it would be two hours since I left office. Necklace Road station is where I spent a lot of time brooding, laughing, crying, thinking, looking at the lake in the distance. The benches there would know…
There was a time when I reached the station 9:15 at night, to take the 9:30 train. It came at 10:30 finally. And I reached home at 11:15, all alone. I still don’t know how I survived that day. I guess living alone hardens you to a large extent. Another time, I reached the station to take the last train back- 9:57pm. The station was pitch dark,no electricity, with just a handful of people, and I don’t remember seeing any women. There were no policemen either. Somebody passed a comment. I actually prayed that day. I promised myself and god I wouldn’t try to do such brave stupid things ever again.
The best thing about travelling by public transportation is that you get to see a lot of people, all ages and classes. And some you can never forget. Like there was this one girl I used to see everyday taking the same train as me in the morning, and sometimes the same one back. She was very pretty, and probably had been married recently, going by the traditional bangles on her slender wrists. She was very beautiful, and I always used to stare at her. And then a few months later, I saw a small bump forming on her stomach. For some inexplicable reason, I was silently happy for that strange girl. Then one night, I was in the train back home, and she got in from the next station. Her tummy had grown a bit more by then. It was pretty late, around 9 in the night. She sat looking out of the window. There was fatigue written on her face. Then slowly, her eyes started closing due to the fatigue, and her head was rolling from here to there. I felt sad for her, I don’t know why. Wasn’t there anybody to come and pick her up from office, especially when she was pregnant? Why was she having to work in this condition? Did her husband not treat her well? Did she have to go back home now and cook dinner? There were so many questions in my head. Her beauty seemed very melancholic at that moment. I hope, wherever she is now, she’s happy, and so is her baby.
Another time, a lady got in with her daughter and occupied the seat opposite me. She was a daily wage labourer, I could make out. Thin as a reed, with an excuse of a sari covering her, she looked as though she hadn’t eaten and slept in days. And her little daughter, not more than four years old, holding her mother’s hands and sitting, her innocence still intact. I looked at them for a while, then resumed looking out of the window. After a while, I could feel somebody’s eyes on me. I looked up to see the little girl looking at me curiously, and she suddenly looked away when I caught her eye. So I decided to stare at her, and she kept darting glances at me, then she held my gaze. We looked at each other for a few seconds, and I smiled at her. I got the sweetest smile in return. I can never forget it. I rummaged in my bag and found an apple and gave it to her. She took it without hesitation and gave me another big smile. She may not have learnt yet to say thank you, but that smile was equivalent to a million thank you’s. After a while, I noticed that the lady had started crying. Weeping, her chest heaving. Her daughter, not knowing what was happening, kept looking at her, holding her hand. Then she rested her head on the little girl’s lap, and that innocent little thing was gently stroking her mother’s head, comforting her like only a kid can. The lady then took out a pen she had and scribbled something on the girl’s hand. There was a moment of terror in my heart. What is she writing down? Why is she writing it down? Is it a number that people can contact and hand over the girl to when the mother’s body is discovered? I don’t know…I was scared for the little girl. A little while later, I looked up from the book I was reading, and they were gone..just like that. I don’t know when they got down, which station..I only remember praying for that innocent little thing who had gifted me a beautiful smile.
After travelling by train for a year, my office shifted, and it was getting difficult to take the train anymore. So I started travelling by road. It saved me time. But it was just not the same. And now that I’ve changed jobs, and because I’m tired of fighting with the f*&%^#g auto drivers, I’ve decided to resume my rendezvous with my old flame again. I’m prepared to wait endlessly. I’m looking forward to get some reading done. My daily dose of exercise (running) has started. And I wonder why I don’t put on weight.
Yup, I’m back on track.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)