Its not goodbye

I am not very accomplished at graceful goodbyes. Its never been easy for me to leave a friend or a place that held memories. I have always moved on of course but then I was so much younger then. A goodbye now is hard indeed. I suppose growing older means one is less resilient to pain – our hearts do not have that elasticity that seems to mark the hearts of the truly young. Instead pain leaves us bruised and discoloured for what seems like an eternity.

Leaving my friends in Kuwait when I left the school and country to return to India was the first set of goodbyes I remember. I did have to bid farewell to my grandmother and uncles and everyone else who doted over me when I was three but for some reason while I remember my school-going uncle buying me ice lollies or very meticulously lining my eyes with home-made kajal and drawing the perfect bindi on my forehead, I cannot remember saying goodbye.

I was sad saying goodbye to my school friends at thirteen but I still kept the worst of my hurt behind a newly-created shell. Leaving the miserable school I attended in a forgettable corner of Kerala was more of a pleasure than a pain. So my next major goodbye came when I left my college friends after five years together. For the first time in my life, I had learnt how to have a little fun – I learnt how to go on stage and act or mime – even dance (just the once!) and the friend who taught me all that was too precious for me to bid adieu to. Yet we went our separate ways and only connected again on Facebook a decade and a half later.

More goodbyes after I left my next college by which time I was engaged. That was another hard goodbye to a phase of life that I would never know again. The carefree existence of a college student is looked back on with fond nostalgia by anyone who’s crossed that stage. So that goodbye was two-fold – to my friends and classmates and to my single life. There too I moved on with not much contact with any of my friends afterwards. Sometimes I wonder if I keep no contacts because its easier to harden oneself totally rather than in parts.

Many goodbyes followed as life went on. A permanent farewell to my father. A farewell to the idea that my life would be like any other parent’s. More farewells to many a dream. Today I find myself on the threshold of another goodbye. It promises to be painful. The exact time I will have to wave farewell is not even known but my instinct says its not very far away. Its inevitability does not make it any easier to accept. But of course accept it I will. I have learnt over the years that I am way stronger than I think and life’s unexpected twists sometimes lead you to pleasant surprises. One day, perhaps even saying goodbye will cease to be painful.

Words shouldn't come easy...

I wondered all of last evening about why a word or words uttered while one is unfocussed could be the cause of so much recrimination. I have written more than once about how words are such an imperfect medium of expression that more often than not they cause misunderstandings instead of clearing them. The same holds for words written or spoken while one’s mind is elsewhere. The simple fact is that no one can know all of what goes in another’s mind and the world of messaging is fraught with greater peril as one normally goes about responding with absolutely no thought.

I sometimes feel that the words on the tip of our tongue or the top of our mind are not indicative of the mountain of feelings beneath. Therefore it often happens that a single word cannot capture the poignancy of emotions behind it. A word spoken in absent-mindedness is thus construed in an unintended manner. Similarly we often treat people we love best with a ‘taken for granted’ attitude but truly no one can never know another so well as to assume he or she is an open book – were that the case then there would be no conflicts in relationships the world over.

There was this one incident that stays in my mind so many years after I have heard it. I had gotten a new dress or some such thing and was modelling it to my father. I was all of fifteen. He was reading the papers and didn’t notice me much. When I asked him how I looked, he replied that it was fine. And then added,“It’s such a pity that neither of my daughters can come anywhere close to their mother”. The words are not exact and the incident is probably a juxtaposition of a couple of different ones that had the same theme. I was obviously very hurt on hearing it and yet my father had never meant to cause me any pain. He probably only saw a young girl who didn’t have the potential to be beautiful and completely missed the young mind that was so well endowed with intelligence and creativity. Perhaps he just longed for beauty to be added to the more obvious brains. I know for a fact though that he adored and took pride in me and ten years after his death I still think of him frequently with an intensity that brings tears to my eyes.

When relationships of the closest kind are subject to moments like this, what chance have we got when we make new ones? I think its inevitable that ups and downs happen when words fail us but the strength of any bond is indicated by the elasticity with which we can bounce back to a stable level. Is a misunderstanding worth hurting someone deliberately and repeatedly? Is a sincere apology not a source of alleviation at all? Is existing affection not a palliative for words gone astray? It all depends on the people involved. I have lost friends over time who have walked away without explanations. It has always hurt. And yet those who can walk away at some time will likely leave anyway – that is one way to think of painful situations. They will happen. We learn from them. We hope it will not happen again. And yet if they do, then so be it – one learns again...

The Devil's Dance

The hour was eleven in the night. I stood by a wooden pillar in the women’s enclosure of the temple. I knew no one in the jostling crowd and had waited sleepily for close to an hour for the karimkutty chathan vellattom to begin. A vellattom is a prelude to the actual theyyam itself where the artiste dons a simpler costume (all vellattoms regardless of which theyyam they belong to, look alike) and perform a smaller version of the actual theyyam’s routine. In another ten or twelve hours, the same artiste would then become the personification of the Karimkutty chathan as the theyyam. The preview generally has a song as part of it – called a ‘thottam’ which explains the story of the character behind the theyyam or how that particular theyyam came to be.



After what seemed to me to be a rather long wait, the chenda drums began to beat with a fast rhythm quite different from the slower beats that marked the official start to the vellattom a while back. The karimkutty chathan vellattom then rushed into the arena with each of his arms being held by a young aide. The area inside the temple was not a large one. One side hosted the men’s and women’s enclosures with a large well to the east of the women’s section. In the centre was the structure housing one of the idols and directly opposite was the entrance to the temple complex. Five feet high laterite walls surrounded the space. People thronged everywhere as the members of the temple committee tried their best to push back the crowd so that the vellattom would have enough room for the performance.

As the chenda beats waxed faster, the vellattom shook with suppressed fury pulling at the men who held him back and bellowing in anger. Each gesture and step displayed power that refused to be contained. His enraged growl was a primal sound that filled the watchers with unnamed dread as he launched headlong into the crowded women’s section. Seeing him a few inches away from me, I was mesmerised by the terrific display of madness in his beautifully painted eyes. The eyes were rolled up showing mainly whites as his head moved from side to side like that of a beast scenting his prey. One leg was outstretched on the steps beyond which I stood watching with awe. All the while he continued to growl in a low-key and was being pulled back continuously.

Leaping back, he headed straight for the well and made a mad dash to jump into it while his aides frantically dragged him back. He continued to lunge at the crowd in the different sections and kept shaking his arms crazily so the aides jumped up and down in time to the chenda beats. After a while he yelled loudly and threw off each aide one after the other and continued his furious dancing. The rhythm suddenly changed and slowed down and just as quickly his madness passed and was replaced by a wicked playfulness. He walked up and down jauntily. He beat his baton on his shield. He looked saucily at the crowd and grinned.

Just as suddenly, the chenda raged again and so did the vellattom. He jumped up high, twirled in continuous leaps and filled the entire arena with his breathtaking performance. The torch-bearers surrounding him beat the ground with their coconut frond torches or ‘chootu’ sending up sparks amidst which the dancing karimkutty chathan appeared to be the true manifestation of the devil himself.

I was riveted by the awesome display of madness, playfulness, power, beauty and grace all in one performance. It was well after midnight by the time we got home and the images would not leave my mind – nor would the throbbing chenda beats stop resounding in my head. I could close my eyes and see as clearly as if he were before me again, that incredible whirling and leaping in the other-worldly light of the ‘chootu’ backlit by the flying sparks and underscored by the racing rhythm of the chendas dashing towards that final crescendo...

On loneliness.

There are many kinds of loneliness in life. There is the loneliness of ostracism as a child when you stand alone and watch the others play. There is the loneliness of being the only one who believes differently in a family of conformists. There is the loneliness of being superfluous in a relationship. Solitude is when one is alone by choice as I often like to be. It is only in solitary moments that one renews oneself or let’s one’s thoughts flow freely without apprehension as to whether it would offend or be misunderstood. Solitude is to be savoured in small doses however and I like being with people almost as much as I like being by myself.

Loneliness is not something one chooses – it is thrust upon you when you least desire it. I am often lonely even in a crowd if I feel no connection whatsoever with those around me. I can get lonely in a room full of relatives and loved ones simply because there is an intense disassociation when I feel misunderstood. But probably the hardest kind of loneliness to face is the one where you are in a relationship and yet you feel like that extra bit of coleslaw on a plate of burger and fries that no one quite wants.

I deal with loneliness the way I deal with a lot of other unpleasantness that sometimes comes my way – I acknowledge it and then move on to other things. If it is a particularly strong and painful kind of loneliness, then I let it wash over me and try to write down how I feel. Sometimes none of that works very well and I immerse myself in my children or a zillion mechanical chores so I am too tired to think and then the feeling passes.

I think my current feeling is inspired by the fact that my birthday is around the corner – somehow my birthdays are when I feel the most intense loneliness ever. The day when I used to expect to be treated as though I were special is the day when it is driven home to me how routine my existence is. No one goes out of their way to make that day worthwhile. Maybe as my children grow older they will celebrate with me. For my husband, its simply too much effort. My friends are few and mostly far away so I only get calls. My sister and brother always remember to call too. And yet the day is something I just want to get over with because while it is fine to be ordinary on other days, that one day of the year I always crave a little bit of attention and unfailingly get disappointed. Perhaps this year is different or will be if I decide to simply go and celebrate myself – maybe just this once I can look forward to a birthday instead of hearing the oft repeated “but that’s just too much effort” over and over again in my mind.

Learning to write again

For days I could not write. I mean I can always write but during the past few months, the writing was not coming from deep inside – it wasn’t flowing except in short spurts. Writing to me is an urge, a need , a compulsion – if it is dulled then my life seems lacklustre. I may not ever become anyone great by writing – perhaps my words will be as ephemeral as a puff of smoke but even then I cannot let go. So one day after my interminable whining and postponement of the ‘WRITING OF THE BOOK’ – yes the capitals were intentional, my brother told me I had to stop.

I have been writing since I was 9 – that was the time I read my first book and began thinking in print. To write a book had been my earliest dream and my longest lasting yet and therefore my brother rightly pointed out that there was no excuse whatsoever for my behaviour. I wanted to write, I could write – so what on earth was stopping me?

He then handed me a notepad and a pen and told me to lock myself in my room upstairs and just write whatever came into my head. I wasn’t to look at my laptop. I wasn’t to listen to music. I was definitely not supposed to look at my Blackberry to which my family fervently believes I am completely addicted. I acquiesced meekly enough considering he’s my younger brother. I sat on my bed propped against the pillows and took out my favourite pen. I was so used to typing that my handwriting looked completely unlike the beautiful script I used to possess. Within moments I was lost in writing. The physical aspect of putting down words on a paper while feeling the effort in my fingers and the tangible aspect of turning yet another filled sheet to encounter more opportunity in the next page was very enjoyable. My hand moved, the pen moved, words began filling the blank lines like magic.


What I wrote was not important – certainly it is nothing I would put up to read but the good thing was that it didn’t matter. It started the flow. I then went back to my laptop and typed out a 2000 word story effortlessly. I have gone back to writing on paper when I feel the need to think a bit clearly and then when I transpose those words on to the screen, the style changes and the story or article or essay becomes more polished and definitely more readable.


The beautiful part of being able to let go like this is that you automatically become that much lighter. It is with a huge sense of relief that I walk around now. To have something in you that wants to be freed is an unsettling feeling but once it is let out and you do what only you know how to do, it is sheer delight. Sometimes it takes years to learn that a simple piece of paper and a pen and silence is what you needed all along. And yet to learn a valuable lesson, however late is a blessing in itself.

One moment in time...

“Give me one moment in time, when I am racing with destiny ...”

I love that line. It captures the hunger to be all that you can be – the desire to go all the way, to feel like you are at least for that one moment, fulfilling your purpose of existence. I am yet to feel that way. I have this overwhelming need to be whatever I can be but somewhere somehow I hold myself back from immersing myself in the pursuit of that dream.

I can make any number of excuses. The kids. My husband. The house. A million routine chores that leave me deadened to inspiration. Lack of exposure. I have not led an interesting life, what could I possibly have to write that anyone would want to read? But then that’s not the point. I want to write despite all that is holding me back. My worst enemy never came from outside. Its always been myself. Everyone I know tells me I can write. Everyone I respect tells me I waste my potential by not writing that longed-for book. Why do I appear to self-sabotage myself each time I attempt to pen down the words then? I don’t know.

People have given me various ideas. Many friends tell me I have to write for a certain amount of time everyday regardless of mood or creative inspiration. Others tell me I have read too many good books and beat myself up unnecessarily for not being perfect. Yet others like my husband tell me I am merely making excuses and there was absolutely no reason I couldn’t write a book in three months. I listen and feel frustrated. I imagine that there’s this wall around me that I cannot get through. I feel choked with the bitter bile of failure before even an attempt at success. Why? Again, I don’t know.

My brother has a theory. He says there is something painful inside me that if I do not write about, I will not get over the block. To avoid writing about it, I stop myself from writing at all is what he believes. His other point was that it did not matter if my story wasn’t new or appeared to be boring or uninteresting since it was not the story as much as how I told it that would make a difference. He might be right. Some things you cannot write about and yet if you don’t you aren’t being true to yourself at all. Perhaps I have kept a part of me locked up that needs to be let out.

Whatever be the reason, I long for that one moment in time when I am more than I ever thought I could be...

Unconditional.

Why do I feel like writing about acceptance today? Its not a new train of thought and the idea of the importance of acceptance is not one that grew on me overnight but currently it is swirling about in my mind and if I do not set it down, it will only distract me from the rest of my work.

Acceptance must be unconditional for it to be effective. It sounds too much like a declaration but then in a way it is one. I don’t believe that you can accept only parts of a person or a situation. I know that there are people who routinely do so but then they miss the picture and focus only on little things. If you cannot see the wood for the trees, you miss the beauty of the forest entirely.

Every person is a mix of desirable and undesirable characteristics. The nature of the desirability is purely subjective. I won’t like a particular trait in anyone and yet there are others who may find that very trait endearing or at least, attractive. If the balance is tilted towards more characteristics that I do not like, I do not accept the entire person. I may tolerate them but there will be nothing more than a veneer of politeness in my interactions with them. Others see me in the same way too I am sure.

If, however I love someone be it in any capacity – either friend or spouse or child, then my acceptance is total. It does not matter that there are traits I dislike or find it difficult to tolerate because the person involved has other traits that I cherish and it is in the balance of different characteristics that the beauty of their character is revealed. I do not tarnish this beauty with a judgemental view. It is my strong belief that no one can judge someone they are close to truly because one is never free from the taint of perceptions coloured by wishes rather than facts. Objectivity can arise only from a distance and if judge we must, then it can only be related to persons or situations with which we have no direct engagement.

Unconditional acceptance enriches both the giver and the receiver. The idea that one does not need to be perfect to merit love and acceptance is a great liberator – the idea that one can love someone else warts and all gives you the power to transcend the ordinary and reach a completely different level of feeling for your loved one. But to even comprehend that, you must leave all thoughts of yourself or your ego behind – in the deepest kind of love, there is no place for ego and it is that alone that comes in the way of total acceptance.

Have you experienced the love of a child? One cannot get anything more unconditional than that – the love that a child shows his or her mother is not based on anything at all – not how good the mother looks, whether she is perfectly happy always or whether she is capable of being the best mother – a child is a fount for forgiveness and an unending source of love that lifts you up. If you can learn to love and accept like that, you become truly blessed.

In the case of situations, there are many times when we are faced with instances when it is impossible to see the good in something traumatic but it will still be there. To reject something as painful and to attempt to delete it completely will give it the power to endure in your mind. But if you accept the situation as a whole and believe that you can yet learn something from it – that there is a gift in it somewhere inside the pain. Accept it in totality and you are empowered. Think fractionally and it will break you...