Hamsanandhi

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2be-QXe5moo

She went about in her own silent way, touching all of our lives, skimming in and out of the big picture. She hated to be called for or recognized in public, even if it was to tell her the kolam looked incredible that day, or that the puli saadham she'd made for the temple was out-of-the-world delicious.

Losing your mother that early in life has an effect on you, she'd said, in one of her rare talkative moods. Its hard to impose yourself on people when you don't know what it feels like to be truly wanted by somebody. And then she'd clammed up, flustered at her implication that her early life was anything but perfect. Of course, she wouldn't hear anything against her father, him with the wide brow and the big turban. Him with the unfair eye, who regarded her as a devil-child, who would let her use only the brass vessels at home. Who got her married off as soon as people spoke of her monstrous musical talent.

Even years later, one would catch her humming to herself in the old kitchen, and then stopping abruptly, casting furtive glances at the yard, wondering if her father's spirit had heard and disapproved. But past her fluidity and evident concern for 'periyavaaloda' opinion lay a great diffidence for criticism, one that helped her raise a child found abandoned outside her doorstep, that helped her stand her ground and refuse when her 'well-wishers' spoke of getting her husband remarried to supposedly dispel his Irish curse.

Self-sufficient was she, so much that she insisted on rubbing turmeric on her own feet on the day of her wedding, squirming as her arthritic mother-in-law did it as keeping with tradition, wheezing and coughing. She'd squirmed in a different way altogether when her husband touched her toe, as he slipped her metti and looked up at her, like she actually mattered. Which was why, to her, regardless of her ignorance of the ideal of love and eternal bonds, he was the only one, impotence and the drinking habit and all.

The day she found Aarabi, or rather, the day Aarabi found her was something she'd never tire of talking about, except when her mother-in-law was around. Her love for music had finally found an outlet in her daughter, whom she said was born 'of her heart'. Aarabi started singing at the age of 4, in such adherence to Carnatic style that it was enough to stop anyone in their tracks.

I remember the day I saw her first, sitting backstage at one of Aarabi's concerts. Firstly, my eyes were riveted on Aarabi, and thank the good lord, her soaring, divine voice gave me ample, legitimate reason to stare at her so. As (underpaid, overworked) Cultural Correspondent of a prominent newspaper, it was none of my cheek to wonder angrily at how the mother of such a lovely catch had allowed her to be paraded in full view of public view like this, how she had allowed all and sundry to be witness to such purity, but I did so all the same.

And then I saw her. Eyes closed, fingers tapping against the impeccable folds of her brown nine-yard, drowning in the music like nothing else mattered. Until that moment, I knew nothing but Aarabi's main piece of the evening, in Hamsanandhi. The raw power of the composition, her versatile voice thriving on the Kakali Nishada, effortlessly jumping down to the Prati Madhyama. Hitting the higher swaras with ease and having her way with the lower ones too. Above all, the presence of her voice and sheer command over everyone present. The way she'd almost tease the accompanists with her intricate neravals, daring them to toy with the raaga as she did. The way she possessively caressed every note, with a kind of flamboyant arrogance, the kind that came only with true, unquestionable love.

But the minute I saw her mother, I felt as though every musical vibe in the hall emanated from her, as though she was why the song existed, as though she was one with the song. Hamsanandi, with its ups-and-downs and resplendence cloaked behind simplicity, was her. She was Hamsanandi.

One very happy married life with Aarabi behind me (a complicated story, I shall leave it for another day, but it has a most satisfactory ending), I knew my initial gut feeling about my wife's mother(/best friend/mentor) was true. She was a star in every way, braving the colds that came with her every rain-dance, the scratches that came with her every game of hopscotch. She would flit in and out of our lives, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, but she would always remain.

This piece comes right after Aarabi's first concert post her mother's demise. I have never discussed with her how Hamsanandi was synonymous with her mother to me, but if Aarabi's (coincidental?) main piece today was any indication, I have proof that my wife and me share more than just a bedroom. Today, Aarabi's Hamsanandi was repressed, dignified, melancholic, strong. Very much like her mother herself.
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Sundar, good job as usual, but I don't think a write-up about your mother-in-law will help us much. A dispassionate review of your wife's concert, if you will. Also, everyone at the paper knows you were paid an obscenely low salary 20 years ago, stop mentioning it in every article. - Ed.

-April 9, 2010.

Old 55s.

He passed the Gateway of India, distracted, repenting all those years of pain he’d inflicted on his wife. Repenting his drunken violence towards his kids.

He entered the Taj Mahal hotel, set for a meeting, and vowed to reform himself.

He glanced at the calender. As of 26th November ’08, he thought, he would be a changed man.
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He coughed uncontrollably, and looked at the note his daughter left him the previous month.

“Daddy, plese stop smoking if you lov me. Promis?”

His eyes welled up as he reread it, after his wife left him, daughter in tow.

Seeking solace, he fished out a cigarette from his pocket and took a long drag.
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They couldn’t stop staring. She had always been the cynosure of all eyes. She had everything, they said.

At the party, everyone complimented her on her diamonds, her lovely sari. Gifts from her husband, she said.

Later that night, she looked at her watch. And wondered if her husband’s boyfriend had left their house yet.
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-November 8, 2009.

Because I should stop posting stuff I write as Facbook notes..

Littul Joybundle.

Funny. Smart. Unfairly adorable. HOT. Mine.

Wakes up early to talk to me. Recharges phone (sometimes, after a lot of grumbling). Promises to eat my cooking. Adorably whiny when I'm not sufficiently talkative. Intuitive enough to make up for a million clueless guys. Splits the bill. Listens. Loves. Is honest. Is verbal about feelings. Thinks about future, a lot. Freaks out for the smallest of things. Takes offence for the smallest of things. Melts at the smallest of things. Thinks this is it. Is feel-good, in every possible way. Supportive. Confused. Seeks my opinion. Claims to feel better on talking to me. Reads and recommends books. Is aware of good cinema. Says cheesy things randomly, and means them. Makes effort to learn my mother tongue. Braves public transport for my company. Loves long goodbyes, and won't have it any other way. Secure. Makes everything seem funny. Cheers up. Isn't afraid of showing feelings. Gets irked with unnecessary bursts of temper. Keeps me grounded. Loves. Is loved. :-*

Has my heart. Can either break it/keep it safe.

Risky, but its a risk I'm willing to take.

Its worth it. :)

____________________

Fiction.

-December 6, 2009.

Savoy truffle.

The thought of walking into my kitchen and finding THIS-

OR this-




makes me delirious.

And while we're on the topic, I made dinner day before yesterday, and it was actually edible. More on that later.

Does anyone else feel hungry on listening to Savoy Truffle?! Sieg Heil to The Beatles.

The Joker

I am your truth. I live with fiery spirit, with a kind of intensity you can never dream of. How I flit through your insignificant life, untouchable. Distant. Frozen to contact. I just might accept you as a rival, but that will only be when I am at my weakest. And that will be my secret.

I know what you think, I know what you’re worth. I can see into your core, for I have lost mine. It’s easy to, for you’re vulnerable. Open to scrutiny, cracked, broken. Your recurring memories can break your spirit, cloud what you are, how can you be anything but easy to perceive?

A word of uncertainty from a voice insignificant is all it takes. You’re over. At my most human, you call me cruel. How can you deny me my amusement, my respite from what I think you are: unadulterated boredom.

I search for the wall that defies me, until then, I shall toy with you. Play along, for I might just escalate into a juggernaut that builds and builds with every slur I face.

I delight in your helplessness. The deluge is inescapable, learn to laugh. Look at the world around, this ordered mess. How many times do you feel thankful because it wasn’t you this time? Happy that it was that family halfway around the globe? The girl in the TV screen? Let it show, the world won’t love you any less for it. They’re all the same.

Under your veneer of virtuosity, I know what you are. I bite you when you’re cold, singe you when you burn. I pick at your scabs, I knock down your reading lamp. Believe it or not, its actually all you.

You cannot fight me, I will always be. Try it, social experiments always serve to fascinate. Pick up the knife, tease the grey blade into exploring your marrow. Until your insides throb. Malign your blood, try, for however it blots and clots, it holds together a race; but that is inconsequential to you and me.

I am why you feel. I am chaos. I am you.

__________________

By no stretch of imagination are these my thoughts. Forgive me if this is disturbing.
Listen to Vicarious and Sad but True over and over again. Read Sylvia Plath and look up Munchausens Syndrome by Proxy and MPD. Watch the season 5 finale of House MD. You can't not question identity then.

Okay I'm off to make pizza on those little bases you get at Nilgiris.

I doubt, therefore I may be?

I've had absolutely no motivation to blog over the last few weeks. Its not like I'm all that busy or anything, I haven't thought of ANYthing worth writing about.

So many people around me live in the moment, all it takes to make them happy is a high grade in a test, or a compliment from a teacher. Why I have to complicate things by thinking of the purpose of life and all that jazz is something I truly cannot comprehend.

This summer, I thought. Most of us lead our lives in ways that are EXPECTED of us, we do things because our parents push us to or because its what the world does. Without this external propulsion, I'm positive a fair portion of us would be lost, or atleast I would.

So I asked the people around me, if they didn't have these social expectations, if time, money and status weren't issues, what would they do? What would they be TRULY happy doing?

Daddy said he'd buy every music CD ever recorded and listen to music all day. Amma said she'd spend all her time with her parents and their friends. I said I'd travel (subject to change.). Apoorvaa said she didn't know. My cousin Sowmya said she'd fly first class and be a doctor and an architect. Rekha Aunty and Srini Mama both said they'd write and read all they could.

But the cycle does prevail, our dreams hardly ever can escape studyworkmarriage. Competitiveness and being judgemental never really can escape our lives. I should know, enough people give me the sympathetic head-tilt when I say I'm a Commerce student (I've made my peace with that by the way, enough people have ALSO told me to let it pass).

I wish I didn't have to live with public opinion hounding me wherever I went. I wish I was fully capable of tuning public opinion out, of being able to live life Roark-style. I wish the world wasn't this cut-throat, I wish it wasn't always about the cut-off. I wish I'll be able to look back on my life someday and have no regrets. Isn't that what we all live for? Or are we too caught up in following other people's lives to notice our own?

I'm not entitled to all these dark opinions, I'm 16, I haven't even seen the world yet. I just think that there's more to life than a huge number on your marksheets or on your paycheck.

Its not very easy to sift through all these streams of thought in my head, sigh. Forgive me for being overtly sad and possibly wrong here.

Otherwise, I've been playing volleyball, among other things, for the first time in my life. Its highly gratifying to graze my knees, or see my forearms glow red after a reasonably good game I must say. I feel very sportswomanlike. My tan lines rock :D.

HOW true.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fwje82kzY6s&feature=related

Story of my life. :)

Lev Yilmaz is amazing, siiiigh.

Please tell me..

1) You know how sometimes there are these songs? That sum up what you're feeling SO perfectly, that you marvel at how accurately they put it? And stuff like 'I go out of my way to step on a crunchy leaf' or cheesy emo pon and zi cartoons?

How does it make you feel, the fact there are other people who feel the exact same way you do? Does it comfort you, knowing you have company? Or do you find it unnerving, the thought that you aren't so unique after all?

2) Would you choose to be happy for a short period of time, even if you knew it would make you miserable later on?

3) Chocolate/cheese?

I'd love to know.