Words unsaid

Michael Jackson is no more. It is still a bit of a shock to know that the highly talented star who had been on a downward spiral for the last decade or more had died alone with but a doctor by his side during his last moments. He had been steadily killing himself over the years with an unhealthy lifestyle, obsession with greatness, addiction to painkillers and complete disregard for his body’s needs. He was a fine healthy young man at the peak of his career when one fire accident caused the downturn that stopped only with his death.
It is hard for a regular person such as myself to understand why such an obviously gifted person could not find contentment or happiness. He had his talent and the adoration of multitudes but was pitifully lonely. He could not love himself. He had no soul mate. He had no regular joys in life. He indulged in excesses that were so far beyond normal, they existed in a sort of fantasy realm. All that however did not complete him or fill the void he must have felt each hour of his days and nights. Unnatural and early fame unmanned him to the extent that he felt himself above normal and lost his grounding. Indeed in the last few years he was more an object of ridicule with his endless charades and widely known debts and ever increasing dependence on quack doctors for relief. He lost every bit of his fortune and was probably almost destitute at the end.
In the end his story is not unique for there have been too many such cases when a volatile mix of fame, drugs and sex has sent a great talent to an early grave. MJ’s excesses were admittedly almost without precedent but the style is similar. What really bothered me was the fact that he died alone. How it must have hurt to realise even for a split-second that he had no more chances left to redeem himself in his eyes and those of the world. Did he want to say a final goodbye to his children? Did he feel the need to see his parents or siblings? Did he want to thank someone or apologise to another before he felt at peace? To die unfinished is the greatest tragedy for after all death is universal and not a tragedy by itself whereas leaving unsaid the final words that are searing your mind as you head towards the end must be scary.

The return

Ten years had passed since she had last set foot in her native land of north Kerala. It did not have to be ten years but her parents had decided that travelling to India was an indulgence they could ill afford and were willing to wait for a more permanent reason to return. She was thirteen and slender with big dark eyes and masses of hair that seemed to overbalance her frame. Her sister was five years older and was the darling of her grandmother’s heart till she left. Her grandmother never forgave her father for uprooting her eldest grandchild from her heart and her home.
She knew of her maternal uncles and grandmother only through her sister’s memories. Her sister would talk about plaiting coconut palm fronds for the roof of grandma’s cowshed or walking about in the fields learning about the obscure little plants popping up among the vegetables or pulses that were planted in between the paddy harvests. She was a good story teller and soon the younger girl’s imagination was full of the scent and colour of the water lilies that grew profusely in the little canal close to the Chemballi River.
So they all made the long, tiresome journey to her mother’s home and she clambered down from the taxi onto a road too narrow to admit cars. Her mother led the way to the house and she went eagerly onward. Her younger brother was quiet as usual. Her sister seemed to remember the place and she was smiling one of her rare smiles. Her maternal uncle had come to greet them and so did his wife and infant son whom they were all seeing for the first time. She craned her neck for a glimpse of her little grandmother but saw no one fitting that description. Almost the entire village had gathered to see the return of one of their own.
Her father’s booming voice broke out over the strained silence. He asked for her grandmother and then she reluctantly came out of the dark house. She was completely impassive. Not a gesture of warmth or affection crossed her face. She spoke in clear and measured words enquiring about their health and telling them to come inside. She did not look at the grandson who was born in another country and who was a complete stranger to her. She had no smile for anyone and she looked at the returnees as if from a great distance away. The young girl shivered as though suddenly cold. She felt anger at her grandmother’s ruining of the long-awaited homecoming. She did not see the endless days her grandmother had waited in despairing hope or the silence of the long years that had frozen her heart. The return was as painful as the leaving...

The lost princess

She was brown and tiny and wrinkled. She was in the furthest corner of the dank and ill-lit room where there were too many children to count. She cried softly having learnt very early that crying loudly had painful consequences. She was hungry most of the time and no one came to look at her very much. At three months she was one of the youngest souls in the orphanage dedicated to abandoned or unwanted children. She was born in guilt or shame perhaps or even just happened to be one more girl child the parents could not afford. In any case, she was a little nobody with dulled eyes and a whimper to keep her company.
One day she was cleaned up a little and carried to the next room where a young couple sat talking to the matron in charge of the orphanage. The woman’s eyes brightened and she reached out instinctively for the baby. Her husband’s eyes met her own and they both felt it at the same time – the acknowledgement that they had found the daughter they were seeking. Many days and more formalities passed before they could bring the baby home. And suddenly one day they had their very own little girl.
The tiny hands found other hands to hold. The tiny eyes began to brighten and focus on the loving eyes of those around her. She could eat as much as her little tummy could hold and no one would curse her. She was enveloped in a warm cocoon of love by a whole family – parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents. She was doted on constantly. Willing arms carried her everywhere and mobile mouths spoke to her of flowers, butterflies, stars and moons. She was everybody’s little princess and basked in the rays of their combined affection.
She grew a little bigger each month though she would continue to remain a slight. She began making tentative noises which were pounced on by the eager family as displays of great erudition. She was praised to the skies and carried about with so much pride that she started to look around her with pleasure. Her eyes filled with the light of curiosity. The children’s laughter and the sounds of their talk attracted her the most. And then one day she did it – something she had not done ever before in her life – she smiled. A blessed beautiful smile of happiness and well-being. Now she was truly home.

Clearer sight

I woke up this morning with a sense of freedom flowing through my veins. I was free of my doctor-imposed house arrest of seven days. I could go out for a walk or even something as mundane as getting the right groceries. After a week of recovering from laser eye surgery, it was a dream to just be free to read, watch TV or more importantly, step out.
I tried to figure out why I felt the frustration of not being able to do my usual chores so much. They were not of earth-shattering importance but they did bother me so. Not being allowed to enter the kitchen, I was prevented from having one absolutely perfect cup of tea (the way I and only I can make it!) or having anything worthwhile to eat. Eating is not paramount and anyone who sees me can testify to my disinterest in it. But while I am not a foodie, I do like to eat only food that has a perfect balance of flavours. SO I discovered I missed my own cooking. I could have cheerfully not minded any of that had I not also been banned from reading and writing (but that was only for three days) and so I realizes how many hours of the day were left for me to fill now that I could not do what I usually do.
I felt really bad at not having a job I could go to with colleagues to chat with around the water-cooler. I also felt bad at not having a friend close by who could come and chat with me over tea. I missed reading to the children and was upset by the fact that they seemed perfect content with it! I knew that I had to be careful with my newly minted eyes but that didn’t stop me from being bored out of my mind.
So I fell back on yoga to improve my lower back and in general uplift my spirits. I took long oil baths to rejuvenate my skin. I cleaned out cupboards and gave away old clothes. I thought about how famous my future book would make me and envisioned myself sitting opposite Oprah and telling her why exactly I wrote “The Book”. And I listened to music. Not listened to it with half an ear as I normally do when I put it as a background to writing or surfing the web. I actually listened with all my senses and it soothed my mind wonderfully. I could hear every nuance and felt myself transported. It is surprising how much one fails to notice when one is frantically cramming the day with multitasking in order to prove to ourselves how extraordinarily efficient we are.
At the end of the week, I find myself rested and happy to resume my routine which was formerly very tedious for me. I find myself admiring the leaves on the trees and the blades of grass that my new vision has made more beautiful. I find myself being gentler with the kids and smiling away some of their naughtiness instead of getting upset. A week of looking inwards and finding a novel way to keep myself at peace was a gift that was totally unexpected when I went in to get myself clearer vision.