A life to live for...

She sat in front of her mirror and tried to smile. It came out pathetic and slightly lopsided. Her face was not what she wanted to see. She wanted to see a different Maya. That person had vanished over 20 years ago. She was looking for someone who simply did not exist anymore. Each time she sat down at her dressing table, she suffered a sharp pang of disappointment. She knew she was growing older and there was nothing she could do about it but that was not what bothered her.

Just this morning she had sent her husband off on one of his innumerable business trips. He was into sales at a manufacturing company and had always insisted he wasn’t in control of his schedules and that he had a demanding job. He also adroitly hinted that she didn’t appreciate the amount of hardship he had to undergo to keep her in the luxury she was accustomed to.

She smiled to herself. How she hated the idea of his ‘sacrificing’ nature! But who would believe her? She was effectively in a gilded cage branded as being an anxiety ridden mentally unstable woman and indeed to a certain extent she now believed herself to be so. But she wasn’t this way twenty years ago. Her husband with his ever smiling facade had managed to fool everyone. There was not a single soul in the neighbourhood who would believe that he was in reality a completely different creature. The ladies who walked past her house every evening exchanging gossip, holding potluck lunches and complaining about household help mocked her openly and not so openly. ‘A neurotic middle aged woman with too much time on her hands’ was the kindest description they would arrive at. The sad fact was that the definition was all too true. Yet her husband was also responsible and his ill-treatment of her continued to go unnoticed by everyone else. She was trapped by her insecurities and the fear that her daughter would be lost to her – so she stayed.

She stayed though she knew that her husband had had innumerable affairs and actually kept a second flat in the city for the purpose of entertaining his mistresses. He could always just say that he was being forced to stay with a crazy wife and that she wouldn’t give him a divorce. Women always fell for sob stories. He would simply enjoy them for a while and then give the excuse of his wife’s dementia getting worse as the reason for having to put an end to their sweet relationship. Maya’s lips twisted into a bitter line at the thought of what she continued to put up with. The irony was that she herself had fallen in love with a classmate all those years ago and married him against her family’s wishes.

The mirror still showed her the aging face of a middle aged woman who had scanty hair that couldn’t cover the conspicuous bald patch on her head. She started losing hair when she began taking the pills – pills for high blood pressure, pills for anxiety, pills for allergies, pills to restore beauty, pills to revitalize, vitamin pills and then sleeping pills. It would be an easy matter for her to take just a few extra pills and end her miserable life. Her daughter’s face appeared in her mind. Her love for her was her only reason for existence but soon she would leave for college and then maybe find a partner on her own and then these empty rooms would haunt her. Shouldn’t she take her final step now rather than wait for that horrible loneliness to hit her?

The instinct to live however is not weak and survives most attempts at self-destruction. Slowly she moved away from the mirror and thought hard about how to pick up the ruins of her life and move on. Her husband must not have the final victory. She must not distress her daughter anymore with her fits of hysteria. She must learn to be a different person – one without her weaknesses but instead with a new strength. She did have someone to live for after all – her new self.

The samosa man

The traffic was noisy and the dust and fumes as eye-watering as usual. The ring road connecting the suburbs of the city was always busy. The lorries were the main polluters followed by the buses and the auto rickshaws. Thick grey clouds of smoke billowed from their rickety exhaust pipes and the noise was at the usual deafening level. I sat inside the car with the windows up and ran my eyes desultorily over the whole picture.
The kids were singing aloud to some song in the car and my husband was sitting near the opposite window looking out. This particular signal was a pain – it took too long to change lights and that meant only a few vehicles could inch along at the junction. We settled ourselves for a bit of a wait. The regular troop of vendors came out and started selling their wares. One sold guavas – ripe and unripe. I have a fondness for the strongly flavoured fruit but have never actually bought any from the on-road guys. They have a huge tray on which the fruit are piled in a half-cone with a little bowl of chilli powder and salt together with a knife that has probably never been washed even once in all the generations of its service. You can buy the fruit cut as is or cut and sprinkled with the chilli and salt. The guava guy is generally quite popular.
The next guy to walk by the car with his goods on display was the ‘car wipe cloth’ guy. I usually call him that because my driver invariably wants to buy the bright red badly dyed pieces of cloth that he sells in order to wipe the car. My precious sharkskin leather piece goes unused and fluffy cotton goes ignored in favour of the red threadbare towels. These highly-prized towels always lose colour and when my driver is feeling particularly energetic, leaves red stains on the car upholstery as well. But he cannot be moved - white is out, only red will do.
We also get a visit from the friendly neighbourhood hijdas or persons of mixed sex ( I honestly do not know the politically correct term for that) who prefer the motorcycle crowd. They rub their hands all over the poor victim and shimmy closer in their outrageously low-cut blouses teamed with filmy saris - if the guy is not forthcoming with the money, they then make lewd gestures and pronounce curses on the poor guy for the next couple of generations. Funnily enough a ten rupee note makes a quick appearance after the curse and all is well with the curse being withdrawn and effusive blessings given in their stead.
The samosa guy is a regular. He sells the south Indian style samosas which are triangular (not conical) and have a thin crisp skin and some sort of unidentifiable filling inside. He walks in between the lorries for the drivers are his best customers. He tries his hand at selling to the others as well. He walks quickly and purposefully while balancing a heavily and artfully laden tray of samosas, dodging the odd cyclist and perpetually moving scooterwallah who is always on the lookout for the smallest gap between vehicles. Suddenly I hear my husband laughing. I asked him what was so funny. He tells me to look at the samosa guy carefully. I see him wiping a sorry looking samosa on his shirt and then blowing on it before carefully replacing it on his tray. I missed the first part during which the samosa had rolled under the car in front of us and he had dived to pick it up. I couldn’t help grinning. Real street food indeed!
The light finally turned green long enough for us to pass and move on to the next signal where more slices of life awaited us. The next time you are in Bangalore and on the ring road, don’t forget to look out for the spunky samosa guy and more importantly, don’t get the urge to try one of his crisp samosas!

Gorby

I used to know this cat. She was an occasional visitor to our place – she preferred the capacious ‘tharavadu’ situated a little to the south east of our house. She looked aristocratic so it seemed fitting that she live in a traditional Kerala home rather than in a modern day concrete affair like ours. So we called her “Thamburaty” (Thambu for short) which in Malayalam means a lady who is the head of a noble house (we Nairs are matriarchal so women were traditionally more important). Now this lovely cat was very elegant and spotless white with black tipping only the tail. She would come on the lazy summer mornings and I would talk to her – she would listen for a while and leave. This became a sort of routine. I was about 14 at the time I think and loved cats dearly.
Thambu appeared a number of times that hot summer and one day I heard a pitiful pained mewling from the loft. There was no easy way to climb to it so I ran outside, climbed the ladder to the terrace and peeked through a slit next to the top of the kitchen wall – there she was, our friend the queen, licking up three tiny little kittens. That was the beginning of our succession of cats. It all started with lovely Thambu...
The three kittens were very different in sight as well as temperament. There was Gorby, Spotty and Tiger or Tigu for short. Tigu was a wonderfully cute kitten. He was chocolate coloured with darker stripes and looked exactly like a chocolate tiger and hence the name. He was active and so ridiculously funny when he was seriously stalking a frog or some such creature for he was tiny and never did grow much before he died like so many of my later kittens. In those days, we didn’t have any knowledge about the diseases that could take the lives of cats and veterinarians in that backward spot only dealt with cows – cats were a waste. Spotty was not very lovable. She was white with three spots of black on her head on the left side – it made her look rather asymmetric and while she may have had a good enough nature, I never really had a bond with her. It is her children however that kept Thambu’s line going so I do have a soft spot for her.
Of course my all time favourite was Gorby. He is the reason I write this story. I called him Gorbachev simply because he was white and had an odd shaped black mark right on the centre of his head just like good old Mikhail Gorbachev did. I like to believe he was more than a cat because he had a very highly evolved soul. Generally tomcats (stray ones, not pedigreed ones – just the ordinary ones who would have died outside your front door had you not taken them in) don’t stay at home – they come to eat occasionally if they were hungryMore often they’d get their own meat and would just come for a look once every few months and then there would be no sign of them. Gorby was from the very outset, quite different. He was a house cat and did not show any signs of being ashamed of it. He was very well behaved and did not jump into the communal bowl of milk like his siblings. He was obsessively clean and licked himself like there was no tomorrow. He was also amazingly intelligent.
When Gorby and his brother and sister were very small, we’d get them into our huge hall and move the furniture to the side and play with them. We’d get them some little thing like a bit of string or a small ball or even a small pencil and drop it or wiggle it around. The three would jump up arching their backs and attack. It was hilarious. The string would metamorphose into a snake and Tigu would act very superior when he managed to subdue it. The ball would be too much for the playful kittens and they’d each bat it with their paws and start in surprise when it moved – they’d zoom after it only to slip and slide and land upside down when they hit the sofa or someone’s foot! This always happened because the floor was smooth and they never know how to control their speed. My sister and brother and I would be organized into three sections. One person had to keep the kittens engaged the other would watch to see they didn’t get hurt while I would hold a rolled up newspaper and deliver a running commentary while the kittens played their version of major league soccer. Innocent and cheap entertainment which also called for a little imagination like most of our modes of passing time in childhood.
Gorby was a wonder and a delight. He loved going for walks and would tag along whenever I had to go anywhere close. He would bound to the front and look back as if beckoning while I made my way through the dense grass and wild shrubbery that seemed to spring out of the earth constantly even if we tried to get someone to remove it on a regular basis. Gorby would walk all around me as I made my way to the communal well to get the pump started (to fill our water tank) and then we’d take a little time and walk around slowly so he’d get to investigate his little interests on the way back.
I swear there were many times I felt that Gorby understood whatever we told him and sometimes intuited more. I especially recall one incident involving my elder sister. She would study on a need-to-pass basis so she always waited till the last week before exams and then went overboard. She would tell everyone to call her at 4 in the morning and then go off to sleep. I slept on top of a bunk bed in those days with her on the bottom bed. He promptly walked in at 4 the next morning and jumped onto her stomach after mewing softly and getting no response. He then kneaded his claws on her tummy to get her attention and wake her up. She yelled and turned over but he persisted till she got up. Whether she studied or not, he never knew but he went away satisfied that he had done his bit in making sure she would do college!
I remember how gentle he was with one of us kids if we were unwell. He would sit close by and keep us company through our fever or stomach-ache and had the gentlest expression on his beautiful face. I have never seen a cat that could emote like Gorby. How devoted he was to the entire family as opposed to regular cats who only thought of people as their meal tickets and slaves!
We had Gorby for a few years before he started showing signs of an illness. His beautiful coat began to lose its shine. He lost weight and wasn’t overly bothered about grooming himself. Worst of all he developed a huge festering sore or canker of some sort on his right ear. We tried cleaning the sore and putting in antibiotic powder but it only got worse like an exposed cancer. He looked like a ghost of his former self and our pity seemed to wound his dignity even more. Then one fine day he just walked away never to come back. I never saw his body or found out where he went. This was a cat who never left the house for long and I explored all his haunts and found nothing. A part of me wanted to believe that he was away having a great time somewhere but I knew very well that he had passed and chose to go away and do it quietly with a minimum of fuss. Even as I write this story down, tears come unbidden to my eyes. I cannot forget my lovely Gorby who felt like a soul I had known before in a previous lifetime. Words don’t do justice to him and the delight he gave us by simply being. I hope Gorby is back in some other form and having a blast in his current incarnation. Rock on Gorby!

The rains...

The rain has always inspired poets and writers. Different people see different things when they watch the rain. Some people just love the soothing sound of falling rain. Others may be depressed at the sight of it. It can be melancholy to be without the sun for days as is the case during the monsoons. Nature whether depressing or uplifting is still impressive during those wonderful displays of light and sound that is the norm during the rainy seasons.
I love the rain. I do not like to be caught in it and am fussy about getting wet. I prefer watching the furious lashing of the wind and the rain from the comfort of my home. Its even better if I have a cup of hot tea cradled in my hands warming me from the inside while contrasting wonderfully with the cold outside. The trees in the garden are pushed every which way and they sway alarmingly in the strong winds. The front lawns get inundated with rain water and only the tips of the blades of grass manage to poke out. The sky is an angry gray and looks like the face of a sullen God taking out its anger on the meek and receptive earth.
The childhood years I spent in the Gulf have sown in me an appreciation of water and greenery. I remember the sparse and infrequent rains that were all that we knew as rain. Even those measly showers however, altered the landscape immensely. It was almost as if the desert knew that rain was too precious to waste and hurried her hidden seeds to fruition in just a few days so that almost overnight the bland wasteland would be covered with tiny flowers and little bits of greenery and even little puddles of water which we would gleefully jump in. It was magic especially for a kid like me who believed strongly in all things magical.
I remember this small tree- I thought it fairly large then but looking back I realize that it was small indeed- on my way to school. The heat was almost unbearable at 12:30 which was when we would be walking back with our heavy load of books. The merciless sun would pound on us ceaselessly. We tried to take longer paths through the shade of the buildings but that was not always possible and we had to take the heat head on everyday of the summer. So it came as a genuine relief to see our tree in the middle of an open ground about halfway to our flat. We would stop there awhile under the shade to take a breather and then continue on. That little tree with its friendly shade was shelter and relatively cool relief for us kids and I think that’s where my love for trees originated. I have a tiny backyard now but I have planted a mango tree, a pomegranate tree and banana plants in lieu of the manicured lawn and stilted shrubs favoured by my neighbours.
I love the smell of newly drenched earth. It evokes an almost instinctive response in me. I savour the fragrance and honestly wish I could bottle it so that I could breathe of it whenever I feel the need to beat stress. Today my children laugh and dance in the puddles when it rains. Even if it means their coughs get worse or they catch colds, I don’t have the heart to give them more than a token scowl when I see them at it – wet and dirty and having a blast. Truly the rains are magical and children always seem to know it better than the adults.

Real Indian cinema

Indian cinema is synonymous with Bollywood. That’s like saying European cinema means only Italian movies. Unfortunately it is true for anyone outside India looking in. The fact that Hindi cinema does in no way represent the culture or even spirit of all of India is one that is never publicised. Hence all of Indian cinema is assumed to be a senseless and overly long musical extravaganza.

I am not a fan of Hindi cinema. This perhaps could be because I am from Kerala. Now, I am not a proper Keralite since I grew up outside India and saw Hindi movies long before I saw my first Malayalam movie but even then I could feel the difference. I did love the songs and clothes in the Anil Kapoor movies that were the rage then (I was a kid – that must be my excuse!). So no one can point fingers at me accusing me of not knowing the language or its nuances or in being too “Madrasi” in my taste.

A Hindi movie is always the same – non-existent story, scanty clothes, improbable style sense and song sequences that are completely unwarranted. The actors change, the hemlines change but the underlying principle does not. I used to watch Hindi movies in college just after exams to relax my brain and yet I have walked out of a couple of Madhuri Dixit movies just because it was too much nonsense for me to watch without slipping into a coma.
A Malayalam movie is more down-to-earth. The characters are people who are not glamorous for the most part though the men play a role far younger than their real age. However the stories are genuine and believable. A fisherman’s daughter will look just like she is supposed to and will not sport designer labels or make-up even in an imaginary song sequence. Also there is never a question of ‘borrowing’ music or stories from Hollywood. Among Keralites there isn’t a passion for all things American either. In a sense Malayalam movies are very much like American movies of a certain era – they stand on their own merit and are original.

Over the last ten years, there’s been deterioration in the quality of Malayalam movies – actually I think that might be applicable to most of popular cinema around the world. There were movies fifteen years ago that have moved me to tears time and time again. There are actors like Mohanlal, Jagathy, Mammootty and Oduvil Unnikrishnan who have shown such subtlety on occasion that they feel more like a part of my family than actors. Its the very subtlety of the acting contrasting with the intensity of emotion and the full-out comedy that is the hallmark of good Malayalam cinema. When successful movies from Kerala are copied or remade in Hindi, they lose all their lustre because of lackadaisical acting and an overdose of glamour and songs in ordinary life situations. A regular story in Malayalam would never work in Hindi and for the benefit of both cinemas should never even be attempted.

Therefore it is truly sad that instead of recognising Bengali and Malayalam movies for their excellence, only Hindi movies are selected time and time again to represent India at the Oscars. Who on earth would think a Lagaan or an Ekalavya was even worthy to be viewed abroad let alone sent to the Academy of Motion Pictures as contenders? Greats like Satyajit Ray , Bharathan, Adoor, Padmarajan have made (and Adoor continues to make) excellent movies of unparalleled beauty but there is no one to showcase them because regional cinema is poor financially and could never match Bollywood in marketing.

Indian cinema has great talent and Hindi cinema has some movies from the non-commercial or small budget section that are truly enjoyable but labelling Hindi cinema alone as Indian has deprived the world of the pleasure of watching fine movies from various regions in India and has also deprived great filmmakers from being given their just dues and recognition.

Is that a baby in your soup?

My daughter has always asked me questions that are tricky to answer. She is five years old. I do hope the questions don’t increase in complexity exponentially with her growth. If she does, I’ll have to outsource the answering to her dad.

The other day we had a conversation that went like this:
Mahi (she was just back from school): Amma?
Me (struggling to get her out of her extremely sand-encrusted uniform): Yes?
Mahi: If you eat a lot, will you get a fat stomach?
Me: I don’t think you will ever get fat but it does depend on what you eat. Why?
Mahi: If you have a fat stomach, then you will have babies.
Me: Er..
Mahi: Lots of babies.
Me: Who told you that?
Mahi: All the people who have babies become fat!
Me: That’s true – but it’s not because they eat too much.
Mahi: Then why do they eat babies and put them in their stomach? You ate me and Appu , right?
Me: Of course not - I did not eat you and your brother – remember I told you you started small and got into my bellybutton?
Mahi: Okay but still if I eat a lot, my stomach will become big and I don’t want babies!!
Me: Eating a lot will not make you have babies and in any case you don’t eat anything!
Mahi: But what about you?
Me: I won’t have babies either. I have you and Appu.
Mahi: You should ask God not to give you any more babies, okay?
Me: Sure – okay...

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.