My mother was an attractive girl. She still is. It is easy to see why my father was smitten. The story we kids love the most is the one where my father met her for the first time. And every time we ask for this story, a new age-appropriate layer is peeled off before us to peer into. She was very quiet and always had a slight sad look in her eyes, he says. My mother never refuted this, and she never really has described how he was when she first saw him.

Times were hard. He was eking out a living in a small secretarial position in a private company in Delhi. “In Accounts,” he always adds. My mother was a nurse in Ludhiana, but she had travelled to Delhi to give an application at the Employment Exchange. These were the last years of the 1970s, when opportunities in Saudi Arabia and Nigeria were big. Yet, my mother applied for a nursing position in the never-heard of Kuwait.

It seems like there were no complicated dating rituals back then. My parents met a couple of times, amid common friends. My father, I imagine, must have been as gregarious as he is now. Lots of anecdotes and jokes and experiences. Even at the age of 26, I am sure. My mother nodded along and smiled politely, not asking too many questions. He clearly liked her. When my mother returned to Ludhiana after her interviews, my father realized (like all heroes in great tales like these) that he liked her enough to confide in his elder sister-in-law, my aunt. I have to thank my aunt for pushing this case further. She picked up the phone and pointedly asked my mother what she thought of this chatty boy.  The rest, as they say, is history.

Three children and three decades later, they live in a house that echoes and is too big for them to manage, alone. The children have grown up, left home, and started their own families. The suddenly silent house was hard for them, at first. But the lovers within them picked up the romance that they were forced to abandon in between bottle feeds and diaper changes, and school fees and colleges, and teenage meltdowns and weddings.

I go home to see them sitting on the front porch, hand in hand, talking lazily in the afternoons. I love to watch them busy in the garden watering the plants and caressing the flowers that they helped bloom. I wince at the fragility of their adjusted lives in their homeland, after spending a youth in the torched and alien Kuwait. There are no signs of the tension-filled lives they led in their 30s and 40s though; the arguments that stemmed out of lack of sleep and imminent midlife crisis. The pressures of double shifts and thanklessness at work; the lack of time and the regret of not being around for First Holy Communions or PTA meetings at school. They had hard lives.

My mother talks a lot, now. She learnt a few card games to keep my father company. They cook together—singing, talking, laughing. They have jokes that I had not heard simply because I was not around all this while. They exercise together in the evenings and pray together in the mornings. They truly have become best friends.

When I went home this time, I spent a lot of time with my parents. This was the first time I had come home after my wedding. And I was examining their lives with a new point of view. I realized there is more than what meets the eyes when you leaf through musty albums. Those photographs that are constantly battling decay and rot in the humid environment they are stored in… their wedding album. From the time I first remember these pictures, they were never in a decent looking album. In fact, they were photographs gathered—in a hurry—from an apartment that was looted in a war-torn Kuwait, during the Gulf War. Years later, on one of their wedding anniversaries, we three children bought an album. We carefully pieced together the photographs—from an event none of us had personally attended but was the very reason for our existence.

Now that I was “all grown up”, once again, I asked my parents about the first days of their lives together. Once again, I got to hear about tiny episodes that I had never known before:
How, when my father wrote a letter to my mother asking for directions to an office building in Ludhiana (harboring the sentiments of a budding romance and yet hiding a fear of rejection somewhere deep within), she was quite cryptic and terse. “Get off at the Ludhiana railway station and just ask any rickshawala.”
How, after their wedding date was finalized, my father left from work early to hop on to an overcrowded bus which my mother had already boarded. He found a spot next to where she was and held her hand, on the pretext of taking measurement for the wedding ring.
How, three months after their wedding, my mother had to leave for Kuwait and how my father pined for her for a whole year.
How, even though they are my parents, they are deep and intense lovers.

Years ago, I asked my cousin brother a question — What would be unforgiveable in a relationship?
We were out for a walk that winter night. He stopped in his tracks and almost immediately said — dishonesty and betrayal. Here was a man, whom I idolized for always being caring, kind, understanding and patient… with an unforgiving flame in his eyes.

Must be huge, I thought.

Tonight, I am thinking of the same question and I was surprised that I actually rate insecurity and insignificance really high up on that chart of unforgivable things. Damn it, it is important, I figured. It truly is unforgivable if someone makes you insecure or if someone makes you feel smaller than the tiniest atom in your being.

I don’t forgive easily at all. Not something I am proud of, but I am just putting it out there.
Call me an attention-seeker, if you must. But a nice word, a hug, a thought, a compliment wont necessarily kill anyone. Just that we don’t deem it important. Just that we think we will lose something if we open our mouths and say something nice.

Not good. Not healthy, you know.
It saddens me.

—————-

This was a piece I wrote way back in August 2009.

The story revolves around Jayakrishnan lives a nondescript life in rural Kerala. He also leads a secret dual life where he gallivants around town drinking and partying with boisterous friends. Jayakrishnan falls in love with a lovely strong-minded lass named Radha. At around the same time, he has a brief encounter with a sex worker named Clara. The film then explores Jayakrishnan’s emotions and how his will is torn between the two women. He is extremely sincere and doesn’t hide his encounters from either of the women.

The portrayal of the three characters is extremely well done in this story. The author has carefully sculpted and built each of these characters to make us love/hate them. None of these characters are completely “good” or “bad”. Each of them have flaws and there was no attempt to cover them up. Jayakrishnan, for instance, is ruthless and adamant when he wants something. Radha is shown to be too head-strong and Clara is — well — a “fallen” woman.

This is what I liked the most — the bold theme. It is not something that is usually discussed in Malayalam movies. Even then, the director did not take it over the top or underplay it. Watch it if you can :)

The movie is available on youtube (with subtitles).

He and I were not close friends. But planning trips and having outings, we were nearly always around each other. We liked to spend time with each other and in his quiet ways, he showed me what a wonderful person he is. In my own garrulous ways, I guess I began to appeal to him as well. Weeks and months went by. There was this ache that developed within us. That could not be addressed by our silence. The weekends we got together were precious. The conversations we had were replayed in my head a million times before I fell asleep… only to wake up to happy thoughts about him.

A September evening. Fate had it this way: We would part ways. He would be off to US for a long time period and I would be here. This is it, I thought, conceding defeat and crying silent tears in the ladies’ room. This is it, he thought, as he drove off. A couple of hours later, in delirious bliss, we confessed to each other, our feelings — over the phone. And so began a long distance relationship. Of not having met each other for months after that. Anticipations, triumphs, tragedies, happy thoughts, sad thoughts, laughter, cheer, tears. Everything was shared over this distance and across time zones.

Months went by. It was my birthday. And never was this day this special. For the first time, we met as lovers. It was a very strange feeling. We had so much to talk about. And yet everything was already spoken. The distance and the time that we had spent that way did not matter anymore. Ten days went by in fluid harmony. Coffee dates and random meetings. And before we knew it, it was time to part again. This time it was even more harder. Thankfully, I flew out to him in four months time. That Christmas, I remember thanking God for what He has given me.

A year sped by. I had been here for months. He stayed put. We met throughout the summer and spring. We saw places all over. We made new friends. We had new problems to deal with and came out even stronger. My conviction of him being the one, grew more and more. I went home in Fall and came back to find him with new decisions. I sure was excited…

We are getting married in July 2010.
That is where we are now. Just wanted to keep you posted.

:)

I stood inside the Metro train, squished against the glass door, by the Trade Fair crowd. Going from station to station at snail’s pace, I worried I would make him wait — as always. It’s not like I plan it that ways. But something always comes up. There was this one time when I reached the spot bang on time. But still I kept him waiting — because he got there BEFORE time.

When we finally met, he was wearing a light colored jacket. Reasonably dressed for a November in Delhi, I thought. Look at me in my crumply old kurta! We hugged and continued an old conversation wherever we had last left it. It did not feel like we were meeting after ages. We walked past Wengers. He was hurrying me towards the new Bercos.

“PK, please can we eat first? I am hungry!”

Sitting in Bercos in familiar ambience, I munched on crispy honey chicken with seasame seeds on top. I gulped down some fruit beer. Oh this was heavenly, I thought. We spoke about things, this and that, and people. We spoke about life in general. Then, chewing on a toothpick, I walked around in the inner circle of CP. He and I browsed over those pirated books. They have become really expensive, I lamented. He told me to not buy these books. He always tells me. I always stop by these books. It is a ritual we always did.
We walked towards Janpath and realised that the Snow White store was missing from the inner circle. I have found out that they have closed down. Not that I ever bought anything from there but I still missed it. I bought some gifts for the new friends I had made. We shopped at the Hidesign store. We walked through the smelly subway tunnels. We passed beggar children and hawkers selling us tiny white hankerchiefs. We walked past the expensive Khadi shop and Regal cinema hall. It was playing 2012. In Hindi.

We walked down one of the radials and went into that Barista located next to People Tree. Mighty expensive everything has become, I commented like an outsider. In there, I tasted heaven in the form of a cup of hot cafe mocha. We exchanged gifts, unwrapped them, admired them, thanked each other, repacked them. We spoke nonstop. About what, I wouldn’t remember now.

Towards the end of the day, we walked towards Shivaji Stadium. The familiar bus terminal with all those rickety buses and the shady bus drivers. One by one, the buses came and went. We sat in the bus stop drinking from a bottle of Bisleri. It was getting dark and he told me I should go home soon. His bus was also here. I saw a DTC 910 coming and heard the radio blaring some Himesh number. After a moment of hesitation, I jumped onto its footboard. He was startled for a second and then smiled in approval.
I thanked him for a beautiful CP day, found a seat, adjusted my scarf and looked out of the window. Without a second thought, he took out his cell phone and called out to me, “PK, smile”.

The girl travelled through paths she had never known, existed. She crossed oceans and rivers and forests and mountains. She saw sights, met people, found things. On and on she travelled. Until one day, the girl reached the mouth of a cave. She could not see what was inside, or where it led, or if it would ever end. Taking a chance, the girl entered the cave and fumbled with the darkness that engulfed her. She was afraid but she fought hard not to panic. Her myopic eyes eventually adjusted to the darkness. She walked and walked. Eventually, she found a stream. It was beautiful, she thought, as she rested. She drank the water and devoured its sweetness. Suddenly, she realized she was not alone.

An old man who almost looked like an ancient tree, sat beside her, peering into her eyes. The girl was startled, but not afraid. “What is it that you are looking for, girl?” he asked. “I am really not too sure” she replied honestly. “Ok, then I will tell you”, he offered. “You are looking for some answers to questions that your mind has still not asked you. You are chasing elusive dreams that many dreamers have chased before you, in their lifetimes.” “I don’t thinks so”, she said feeling offended. Slowly, it dawned on her that she had many questions, this girl. And the answers all just seemed too vague. She was dejected. He continued, “What is it that you want in this life? What is it that you live for and truly look forward to finally achieving?”

The girl thought hard. Her mind went back to the times that made her truly happy. When, some late nights, she would be woken from her sleep with an unexpected phone call. The times she has caught herself passing time in idle daydreams. She remembered how precious those moments were, when on Saturday afternoons, she would sit by the window listening to old songs. She yearned for meaningless conversations in the balcony. And those times when silent company was precious. There were those unexpected times when someone told her that she was loved and wanted. These are the things, the girl realized, that made her truly happy. But how could she get them and keep them forever? Aren’t these the moments that come by unexpectedly? Can these be planned? If it could be, then what was the fun? The girl was quiet for a long time.

“I don’t need anything”, the girl finally spoke. “I am happy.”

“Good. You have found your own answers”, the old man’s face wrinkled with an ancient smile.

The girl stood up, turned around, and walked back. All the way back to her empty work desk, where a colorful screen saver danced on the computer screen.

The end.

I just realized that even though a person lives, ages, and eventually dies, our memories about her keeps her alive. (It is true for men as well!) My grandfather passed away in 1986. I was five years old and I can count the total number of times I have met him. While some of my luckier counterparts have spent years with their grandparents, I had the chance to meet my father’s father just 2-3 times. His passing did not evoke any emotion in me. I remember my upset father lying on the bed in deep thought. (Maybe he was sad that he was 3000 kms away from where his father was.) Last evening when I spoke to my father, we cracked an inside joke and laughed. When I hung up the phone, I realized that the joke was a generation older. It was something that my grandfather has passed on to my father, who now passed it on to my siblings and me. To me, my grandfather immortalized himself with that joke.

Immortality has always enticed us. All historical accounts tell us of ambitious alchemists, scientists, and explorers who went in search of the “Elixir of Life” and other items in the similar vein. And all that was required was to sing a new song or cook a new dish. So, go ahead, create a meme and become your own god. Be immortal.

And yet, it happens to me one too many times. Each time I resisted it with as much might as I can. But it was inevitable. Like the first movement from Kuwait to India. I had absolutely no idea of how life was going to be. I think I fared pretty well. Considering the fact that we were Gulf War refugees and had lost almost everything we had. The second movement came when I had to move back from India to a reconstructed, post-war Kuwait. I remember crying into my pillow worrying what awaited me. I even told my parents that I am willing to live separated from them but please will they let me stay back in India. Of course, that was not accepted.

Seven years later, I moved back to Delhi. It was a very different world. This time I had actually left home. Close to ten years were spent in Delhi. But that too with a lot of movement. I led a sheltered life in my first three years with cousins. Two years in the hostel. And finally, four years in my new house. And then one October evening, I flew out once again. I have spent a year in the US and not really realized it. I have already moved twice.

These were all physical movements. But what about the movement of my thoughts, my being? Philosophies have changed. Beliefs have changed. Friends have changed. Is change going to be the only surety as life goes on? Is this the only aspect in life that I will be able to rely on?

What am I in search of? I don’t know. But whatever it is, it is not here.
Maybe it is within me. Maybe I will realize that one day.