A few deaths

Some dreams just don’t fade like the reality; they don’t glare in either, but creeps in and freaks you out. Some dreams about a few I knew haunt me. Some are dead, some alive. Some in a trance, some in a deep despair and some like in the dream I dreamt the other day about an elderly- good- woman-friend of him. She was naked and looked pale like a pearly white ghost. Her body glowed like the moon on a starless night. Her breasts were full and looked sagged. Her stomach showed her youth replaced with folds of fat. She looked heavenly with a calmness that only the blessed-dead could have. I felt happy for her, but all the while guilty for having imagined her that way. I wonder why I dreamed her death, for she is the still-healthy living woman.

Deaths have always scared the day lights out of me. I was scared, haunted, rather to an extent possessed by death all through my growing up days. I have more wondered about death, as where people would go after life. How someone who lived all their life could, just disappear to nowhere after death.

The first death I saw was that of my neighbour uncle, who died of a heart-attack, I still remember how shocked and frozen, I was when I saw him first with his head tied with a white cloth and cotton filled in his nostrils. Will that be done to me once when I die? It disturbed me to know that people would be taken to heaven that way. I ran from the place and went to my bedroom and hid under the cot, thinking that I could evade death. I remember how I hid under the blankets on my bed and peeped out of the window to see him been taken to the heavenly abode.

Deaths scared me only, till I hadn’t met it. The first death for which I cried was for Tiger, a faithful dog of mine. She died having lived her life; it was the first stab of pain for a ten year old. I couldn’t understand what it would be then for me, to be a ten year old and to cry and grieve for the loss of a loved one. All I knew then and now was; it hurts. I look back from then till now, I learnt that with every death, a part of me inevitably dies, I bury a part of myself and it creates a vacuum in me. An emptiness that turns to a scar in me, a wound that I wish time heals, knowing otherwise that, Till death do us apart.

As I grew up, I understood one thing; death is a great-leveller of life. It teaches us love and humility, and with every death I have learnt to love more and be more humble. I have learnt to love everyone around for they may not be alive to be loved tomorrow or I may not be alive to hate them today. It has humbled me, for I have learnt the value of life through death. How I wish I could trade in these lessons for the life of a dead-few.

The scene of her lying clad in her angelic white bride wear in her coffin, ever smiling her sweet smile to the world of her loved ones. I wish God could have understood the value of love, if then He wouldn’t have taken her with him, the scene of a middle-aged mother, knowing well that her orphaned-son had no-one to love and to be loved, the death of a grand-father who gave away his old age to the pain of cocktails of radiation and chemotherapy rather than the loving company of his grandchildren, the death of a brother whose youthful life was wasted in drugs. It is the way life is learnt through a few deaths.

Life is when you know that death doesn’t stop things, it doesn’t end a relationship, but how the cursed few learn to carry the life of the dead in them. Life is when it sharply pains at the stab of a twinge of a remembrance of the long-gone-loved one and a tear or two is dropped and you brush it aside with your finger and turn aside, Smile gently and offer the prayer. I Love You.

A letter you will never read

I lay here on the sofa in my drawing room awake to the sense of being alive in the thoughts of my dead mother. There are times, when I wished she was here with me in this very home where we loved to hate each other and lived a life of lies. Lost in the oblivion, I sat looking at the fan in the ceiling, my mind swirls to certain moments in my life, I feel bad to know that I had been worse to her, there is a painful lump in my throat, my heart gnaws in pain at the very thought of those days. I wish I could ease this numbing pain. I wish I can get rid of this guiltiness of nothing and the nothingness of the guilt that this life had for me to offer.

Dear Mom,

Wish I had written this letter a few years ago, when you could have possibly read this to know that your son loves you, no matter what happened between us. Remember the first letter I wrote in my fourth standard summer vacation camp, rather that was the last letter too. I know I have wronged you, I had never been a son to you, never loved you, never let you love me. but honestly you have never known your son. What happened in our life, which made us hate each other in such vehement hostility? Have you ever wondered how difficult it was for me to live under one roof and still pass each other day as strangers?

You never had time to think about these things, you had your son, who was the world to you. What did I do in life? what was wrong in a nine-year old boy to expect his dad and mom live together? I don't understand this mom, well for that matter I don't understand anything you did in your life, How can you stand to see dad with another woman? you let him live a life with another woman, when you know very well that he cheated you and walk out of the family abandoning the two kids? And more of that, you and him being that good friends even after divorce. I honestly wonder, did you expect your nine year kid to make sense out of all this and then realize that one plus one, not only makes two, but also something that is not one, but actually two. It took me time to understand things and more importantly to put them in perspectives and understand that my mom and dad are divorced, but still love each other.

I knew mom, you were more understanding with dad, you loved him so much that you didn't really mind him, loving another woman. I was the one who didn't understand you and dad. There were times, when you had plainly ignored me and my pain of being the left-over of the love you shared with him. I understood that he was that good friend for you and the husband who felt it was more important for him to bring down his family to ruins, and then expect his kid to understand that it was man enough on his part to part his family. But mom, where you ever there for me to hold me, to ease my pain, help me grow up, ease my adolescent agonies, help me come up with my teen-aches.

Yet I lived life on my own terms, had a dad for name-sake, who felt it was important for me to have a constant male-companion, he was there in my greater-part of life as an unwanted mute spectator, who felt me as a mere awkward acquaintance, who made it a point to be just there in all occasions. I never had a proper father-son conversation with him in all this years. Let me tell you one thing, I just cannot accept him as my father in my life, knowing very well that he had shattered you and your life by a gross betrayal which I cannot just forget or forgive. Also I found it hard to accept you as a mother who would just willfully accept her husband's decision to live with other woman. I lived in a fuss of constant anger, frustration, despair, solitude and a constant longing for love and a quest to know what made my dad and mom decide to part ways and bring to ruins a decade of wedded bliss.

I remember that august evening, when you were about to leave to delhi. I was late from dad's place. I totally forgot that you had your flight at 1 AM, I came home around 11. The first thing you asked me as usual was whether I had dinner. I answered a usual I-don't-care-a-damn-why-you-bother-me NO. I didn't expect that you would take pain to fix up a dinner for me at the last minute. It rather irritated me, knowing that you still care for me and I just couldn't bring myself either to love you or feel grateful to you. And worst of all, you choosing to make rotis then, When you served rotis to me, you very well understand me, by my mere flinching reaction. And still you decided your luck with idlies and chutney.

I came to the kitchen frustrated, to find you cooking when you were already late for the air-port. I shouted at you for no reason. I was rather wild, came behind the counter and threw the vegetable board down, knowing very well that would make you hurt your fingers with the knife. I saw the blood staining the floor, I took the first-aid kit and got the gauze cloth and cotton to bandage you. I tried to hold your hand and help you, you reluctantly got out of my hold and turned to me with tears welled up in your eyes. When I tried to comfort you, you shrinked away from me and sat down the counter and started crying. You drifted away and sobbed heavily into your lap, I wish I could hold you and make up for every wrong I did. I wished you would take me in your arms and let me drown in your love and ease my life out of the hell I made. But you didn't. Instead You again left me. In a minute you sprang up and left the kitchen. I sat there dumbfounded. I sat there still, watching you move inside the house to get ready for your flight. I heard a distant sound of the screeching of the reversing of the car.

Three days later, I awoke to a phone call from Neethu aunty to know that you passed away in your sleep. It was a massive cardiac-arrest. You appeared calmer and prettier than ever. I couldn't forgive myself for our last day. I still keep asking bo-bo whether you spoke anything about me after you left to delhi. He maintains that You spoke nothing. I wish you had spoken something about me. What did we achieve in our life with all this hatredness? I wish I can shout aloud and tell the world that my mom loves me. Never once in your life, you told me that you loved me or made me feel warm and important. But why mom?

All that I have in memory of our lives is the sight of dad playing with little leila, you in kitchen cooking, either singing or humming a favorite tune of yours, the smell of dad's old spice lotion and the smell of cuticura talcum on you, me sitting in your lap when you read from those tattered books, or when you and dad going for those long walks, me holding each of yours hand. Till Today when ever I see the couch, all I could remember is the sight of you lying dreamily across and reading a book. You're so much in me mom, that I hate to admit that you're no more with us and that I never loved you.

PS ***A Draft of a story that i'm experimenting with***

UoH elections: A Pre-view

There are two kinds of people in this world – idealists and practical people. Everybody else falls somewhere between these extremes. But if one should want for an educational institution to create more than just employable graduates; if one thinks that they should create future leaders of tomorrow who will be motivated and honest, one would then be probably branded as a hopeless idealist. And not without cause.

The power mongering sham that the Students’ Union elections 2009 in the University of Hyderabad became would disgust even the faintly idealistic at heart. What should have been a simple but powerful election of student representatives within a university became a thicket of controversy, a bellowing of self servicing political ideologies and an undisguised struggle for power which left many students questioning the point of it all.

The General Body Meeting (GBM) held on 20 August was a hungama with shouting, tantrums, a physical fight and the ultimate walk-out characteristic of our parliament. The philosophy is simple – either you shout and get yourself heard. If you can’t, don’t bother listening to the others as well. It’s survival of the loudest.

The GBM was but the beginning. People who are ‘the upholders of democracy in the campus’ did not disappoint the cynics with their expected behaviour. The days of nomination provided entertainment for all those who consider shouting threats and obscenities without consideration for age or gender but a general pastime. Rumours about cases of sexual harassment being filed against certain candidates started flying. Violence was also reported with one student being roughened up. Apart from this, certain other students wielding cameras and camcorders were questioned and stopped. The reasons behind such behaviour may seem justified to some, but the behaviour in itself is never so.

The day of the counting saw a huge amount of confusion with allegation of rigging, raised voices and slogans being thrown around. The fact that it took an unprecedented amount of security to maintain at least a facsimile of peace speaks for itself. The rude behaviour of students, not just against the members of their rival parties, but also the faculty members present was shocking but what is positively saddening is that such behaviour is not an isolated incident. It happens every year and hence the advice for only the thick-skinned to enter into politics.

The goings on of this election may fill up pages but the question that has to be asked is whether all that has happened is any different from what we all term as the corrupt politics and hopeless Indian scenario. We read news about this political scam or that political hungama but are the political scenarios in our intellectually ‘enlightened’ educational institutions any different? Idealistically speaking, if we hope to change the inescapable, dirt ridden politics of our country, the change needs to come from such places of learning. But sadly, university politics only serves to hold a mirror to national politics. It is viewed as a training ground for future politicians. But it kills any hope for a different set of leaders for tomorrow as the few people who may seriously try for change get bogged down by a system that goes around in loops.

In terms of politics, apart from the hardly existing idealists and the rampant opportunity seekers, a third group titled ‘I-don’t-care’ exists. Neither do they hold opinions about politics nor they do they feel it is important to hold them. They have given up like a seasoned cynic. A semblance of democracy does remain because they tell you that you have the right to vote, but when you do not have the right to contest for a post without fear or subscribing to any particular ideology (superficial or otherwise), the definition of democracy needs a re-look. This process of re-moulding of attitudes and behaviour needs to start with education. But the meandering words of hopeless idealists are often lost in silence.

By Deepti Nair

P.S. Thanks to Deepti, My junior and a good friend for her article. Well the background of this article is University of Hyderabad's Student's Union elections-2009. If, to read more. Please Click here. And catch everyone up soon in their space. And this time. I'm serious folks... And more on this election by me and My another Juns Swati.

yeah!!!!!!!!!!!

Well... I'm just desperate enough now to write something here!!! because, i was absent/missing here for the last say three months. its long ever that I'd been away, except for reading a few posts, well I was quite off the hook, and now i'm back here in Hyd as a research scholar, re-searching my way... well guys,, keep tuned. catch ya all soon... Love to my Blog-friends and family....

P.S. My mom's birthday today!!!! Love you lady mommy!!!!

P.S 2 Raul, a John Ab look-alike joined in HCU.... MA Mass comm. way to go juns!!!

Alive n Kicking

yeah! For the one who craved for holiday n travel... had been roaming like a God-forsaken soul.... Had a fantastic trip in God's own country... Next post... The Monsoon Holiday

... first post with pics.. soon on the go...

In a major Holiday-hang-over

Went to coimbatore... My college n old times.....

Met Amazwi, Blogger Vignesh..... More on that .. soon

Oops! Off to hyderabad tomorrow, Got an interview. wish me all good luck.....

Sorry, been away from many blogs n blog friends-family... This post just to keep informed, am alive n kicking. catch you soon on your blogs...

Had a great trip with my lil bro after a long time....

On the way to be a research scholar soon....

Oops!!! The Hypocrite Tamil

It is long time that I wrote something politically or a thoroughly opinionated write-up, though there are many to talk, there are a few that have been badly bothering me for a long while, especially the unwanted turmoil of LTTE issue in Tamil Nadu. Hey that is and that had been my take. How stupid is it on the part of the politicians of TN to make the people believe that they can help find a solution to the Lankan issue, It was nothing but an election-puller, a pickle to lick for Kalaignar, Amma, Ayya, Captain and every other crook. Well the question would be, why I refrained from writing anything on this. I just wanted to wait to make sure and more importantly the media to declare that the war is over and Prabhakaran is dead and gone. I have no affiliation/affection for him, but I did feel a little bad on his death. Prabhakaran was bad a leader, no qualms on that.

No I don’t want to get to the history or the intricate details or a post-mortem of why he failed/what should have happened. As a citizen, I would not want a third member to talk about the inner disputes of my country; I would want any third party/nation to better shut their mouth up, and Sri Lanka, would want the same, And I appreciate Sri-Lankan PM Rajapakshe’ autonomy and (partly) acting on his own. What it is that special affection for the Tamils, I had been called a betrayer of the Tamil-Elam cause, because I don’t support their ways and means or subscribe to that identity and Ideology, I wonder where thy-humble Humanity was when Innocent civilians in Israel/Orissa was being massacred because of their identity. I honestly cannot feel/cry for someone just because he/she happens to be a Tamil.

And Muthukumar, who immolated himself, for he cannot stand it, was called the Tamil citizen of dignity by one of the Tamil media. I call it the most ridiculous and disgusting act. I spoke to the same words to a magazine reporter, who asked me the same question, “How can I (being a Tamil) can speak so?” At times, I really don’t understand certain things of being a Tamil. And I couldn’t stand the highly hypocritical attitude of the Tamil. As Tamil writer Gnani tells, “It is not wrong to tell that the average Tamilian doesn’t have honesty in him”

And the most bogus election happened in Tamil nadu, everyone knows the story and of How’s DMK won the election and how the daddy had disputes with the centre on getting a share for each of his son/daughter and how congress had been aware of his well-I-know -how tactics. And now the elder takes care of the party at the centre and the younger the state. Rightly Jayakanthan, a Progressive writer in Tamil pointed out that DMK and ADMK are the evil-curses of Tamil nadu. And now it is at its peak. Let’s watch the Game. “Koothu nadakuthu paarir, Kaana Vararir”

I had been never been a watcher of Reality-shows and recently being in a friend’s home. I happened to be one of its spectators too, how everyone in the family religiously watches the show. I couldn’t help myself not to get hooked. It was a finals and live-show, which went till twelve before they could finally decide whole-heartedly and declare the winner of the Air Tel-Super-Singer Contest. The Judge was evidently tired and wished he could better be let go. Ajeesh, a second year Visual-communication student won the game and Man, he was really an amazing singer, and now wonder he got everyone hooked. And sure, that would have been the talk amongst all the house-wives folk and in the work-place too.

I happened to read Ashokamitran, a prominent writer of 80s, on a friend’s suggestion in his blog. He was quite a fascinating writer, whose multi-faceted aspect is clearly reflected in each of his short-stories, one could not guess, what he is going to talk about next in his writing, His characters are from the wide-array of life; the women, children, laborers, actors, writers, middle class family man to the murderers, saints and his almost-to-the-minute psychoanalytic detail shows his humane side and his concern for the fellow-being. One cannot ignore him on a class/caste based position as a writer. It is evident from his writing, how he had this broad outlook on life and literature which is a pre-requisite for a writer.

Unlike other writers of Tamil, he is man who had a well exposure to different lives and situations. While the average so called Progressive-Tamil writer takes a stand as that authentic ethnic Tamil, who considers anything other than Tamil as a gross and gross-betrayal to the Tamil cause. I basically feel that the average Tamil-writer/Tamil has taken a cause and stand that he/she would write in the chaste-Tamil and would read only Tamil. No to English and a Big NO NO to Hindi. “We don’t need a National Language.” We will flourish in Tamil by repeatedly ignoring and murdering Tamil and only using it as the cheap and easy way to attain our petty political means and gains. Honestly, Let me Question, “How many of us can write a page in Tamil without spelling mistakes? And How many of us can name a few contemporary writers and the books for what and which works he/she is well known and well acclaimed?”

Of Writing, Li(v)es, Statement of Purposes

Well, this is indeed a tricky part of admissions to any course, which I am in absolute love with, to write and write. At times what is expected is a profile or simple write-up of why one needs the course in the concerned institute, or how we see ourselves after the course. I don’t want to sound too technical or too much of a know-it-all or teach here, How to write a purposeful Statement of Purpose.

It is indeed a joy and happiness when someone approaches you to help them with something. Way back into years, right from my first year of UG life, I had been this guy, who takes pleasure in anything related to writing, editing and translation. Trust me, had first hands-on experience in editing theses, research proposals (proposals???) research articles, write-ups, essays, resumes, CVs, SOPs.

Remember my Jun N, who is in UK, I remember the excitement when he first told me his plans to go abroad for a masters degree. All the time, we spent in discussing how the SOP should look, the construct, the importance or clarity, conviction and the coherence in the writing. And how he wanted me to sit with him all through the writing process, and it was 3 AM in the morning when he finished. “Bro, here it is, just work on this and change whatever you want to,” Giving me the total autonomy, he slept off. I was rather happy for him, because I took more time to persuade him to write one on his own, rather than going for a consultancy’s ready-made, here-we-serve-your-needs and thus killing the originality of the students. Honesty in Statement of purposes comes from writing what you’re and what you genuinely want to do in life, rather than mere impressive verbose talents

It is such a contagious happiness, when you hear people make it up to their dreams and live the life they imagined. Also it is more an inspiration for me to. May be this is how we grow up with people, seeing their dreams as your own, standing aside and sure by them, cheering up every move, those necessary pats and slaps when needed, and those pep-talks when in really deep-dumps and also the huge throwing up a party to celebrate.

Now I’m at home, looking through a couple of SOPs, and also it is more of a view to someone’s dreams, and I respect each, as I know they are too personal, It takes a lot of courage to actually open our dreams to someone. It is a loving experience to actually read them, help them create the one they need, I sit like that ultra-professional with a sharp HB and an eraser, a thoughtful-I’m-in-work look with an invisible Do-not-dare-to-disturb-me board thrown over me. I soulfully take efforts to just edit the language, the grammar and the mood of the write-up if needed and make the conscious effort to retain the Writer’s tone in it. And it is indeed difficult an effort.

I remember the senior R, indeed a best bhaiya, who often tells me that people take advantage of me, many a times I assured him, not so and I indeed love doing this, I feel people appreciate our work by simply giving us more work. I often think this way, “When there are so many people around, why would someone prefer you over others. It is a confidence that they place on us.” And just play by. The feeling of importance comes from making others feel important.

And when A, got his job, hey I prepared his Resume. And the phone-call, hey dude I made it and the following celebration in that Aavin milk booth, just chai, coffee, Milkova and cookies for rs 289/- and that show-off to my friends that I have a friend who treats his friends in Hotel Residency, a Posh-place in Coimbatore. Actually, that Aavin milk both is just next to the hotel. And this way, our next treats in CAG pride Restaurant and Jenny club went every time someone gets placed.

My talent for writing(sound too much though) goes back to my third standard, when I helped my desk mate D in writing a love-letter to his crush-our senior P, I was caught badly, as I tried to send that letter to her through the Moral Science book, which was accidentally the teachers copy. Hey I still have that letter with me, a very old, badly torn, battered and dog-eared corner of a page torn from the copy-writing book. And also there are few reminders of my talent such as messages that I come up with at times, randomly out of the blue. The text I sent to a friend who was on his first date, the frustrated writings in a boring lecture, the notes sent among the bench-mates, a porn-story I wrote, the first thriller novel, me and alter ego co-authored and of course my first and last love-letter(still in my sent-tems folder)