Remembering Trichur Kilimangalam P. S. Gopalakrishnan

 

It feels deeply personal and privileged to write about Trichur Kilimangalam P. S. Gopalakrishnan. Not because my tribute or memoir would do justice to chronicling his life any better than what has already been done by so many others, so wonderfully well. But, in writing a few words of gratitude for this magnificent human being, I'm only reliving my own childhood, which was so much fonder due to this man's cheer and compassion

It is, for me, quite easy to slip into a deep sense of nostalgia and romanticism of the past, when I think of Ooty and the times spent there, of an era that now increasingly appears to be a relic on paper than a recollection of past memories

And, what is consistently etched deep in those memories is the person of Gopalakrishnan, whom I would address deferentially as Uncle 

Even back then, I saw him as somewhat of an icon, steadfastly present at all times, a beacon or a symbol of unbreaking perpetuity who remained unaffected by unkind weather or the passage of time and its vagaries 

For decades, this man remained at his post, selling fried peanuts to millions. But, what was endearing was how he remembered people and their names and never failed to have a heartening conversation with everyone who came to him. And that, he did with an unfailing smile and liveliness, which would put many a youngster to shame 

I will always remember this wonderful soul for his kind disposition, cheer, and the eternal sense of happiness that he imparted to others - not once discriminating on the lines of social norms and stature. What is even more important and commendable is that his life is a fitting example of how one man could be such an important part of society despite not fitting into the numerous checkboxes that we so meticulously impose on ourselves and others around us. That, to me, is the most honourable measure of a man, which 'Uncle Gopalakrishnan' came to be known and respected for - for his kindness, compassion, cheer, and for his uplifting smile, which will never be forgotten 

Now, with his passing, a certain part of time comes to an end. His departure also symbolizes the end of an era of kindness and respect. Of personal intimacy partaken without condition or underlying motive. I would argue that he was a model human being who set an example of all the values of life that we were taught and expected to follow, but are not able to.  

I would like to remember him with the words of Ida Lyon, who in 1910, wrote in 'The Joy of Living - The Wonders of Life' that, "Life should be to us nothing less than a joy... real, sparkling, soul-stirring joy, that sinks down to the depths of our being."
 

Image Courtesy: M. Sathyamoorthy, The Hindu

Dumblore Cottage

Dumblore Cottage stood mid-way on a lofty hill surrounded by tall Pine, Oak, and Eucalyptus trees. Nestled in a beautiful setting, this place was home for a brief while. The owner, a certain Mr. Fickle Henpeckshaw must be credited for picking what he must have thought was a swanky colonial name for his drab property. That, he did, decades before organized builders adopted the trend for their expensive, fashionable apartments, littered across India's large metropolitan cities.

But, Mr. Henpeckshaw can be offered no more praise. It is very likely that he chose the name by sheer accident, given his comprehension, or, more likely, the lack of it. For Dumblore was no more than an incongruous, ugly monstrosity, covered in wretched pale-yellow paint giving it a thoroughly distasteful appearance. On the inside, the onslaught of this reeking pale-yellow had a more pronounced and nauseating effect in the form of an uglier, cheap mosaic floor that ran across the entirety of the house. The only two things that were of any positive consequence were the wicket gate and the gravel-filled walkway that lay covered with pine leaves most part of the year.

The Henpeckshaws were an unpleasant and boisterous lot. Mrs. Henpeckshaw, who heaved herself across the grounds, with some difficulty, even at the most odd, ungodly hours, was particularly snooty and cold. On sunny mornings, she would be sprawled on her 'favourite' rusted armchair, bawling out long lists of inane instructions to whoever appeared in her presence. The old bat would be seen flapping about without purpose as if her sole intent was to cause discomfort. She was not unlike a medieval vassal to whom the title of being landlady automatically meant being irksome to those who set foot in her property. Quite naturally, she was disliked by all. I suspect by her family, too.

And then, there were the children. Noisy, uncouth mongrels. All three of them. With their funny names or whatever else that they were always yelled at to be brought to attention, even if for a moment.They ensured that every gathering, however important or otherwise, was quickly turned into an utterly disorderly circus. Keep away from the madness was the generally accepted, but unspoken perception.

But, Rosy, the dog, was a class apart. Pleasant and fine-mannered, like a well-schooled lass, she was the only solace that came from that crude lot. She was full of love and you could be assured of a very warm greeting whenever you met her. There were no ulterior motives. An incredibly loving soul in a terribly soiled world, you could say. But, then, so are most dogs, if not all. One can hardly meet a human being who is dog-like. And, for that reason, one's faith in pooch-kind remains undamaged. In saying so, I do not speak only for myself, I can be certain.

Mr. Henpackshaw was rather inconsequential. He was comical in his appearance. Clad in ill-fitting baggy trousers and a dull gray sweater that sagged upto his knees, the old carthorse could be seen trudging about with his filthy cloth bag. But, no one paid any attention. Neither did he demand any. He had no mind of his own. Almost any question put to him would be met with the stony "I will tell you later." That was his stock phrase. One needn't have been intelligent to surmise that it was Mrs. Henpeckshaw who did all the thinking. He was only vocalizing her opinion. That was all he was permitted to do, other than, of course, running errands, paying the bills, and grocery shopping.

The Henpeckshaws received no visitors. They weren't the hospitable kind. Although, you couldn't say the same of Rosy, the dog. Almost anyone who ventured into the property got a sound yelling from Mrs. Henpeckshaw. It appeared that was her only motive in life. Even the dutiful postman was not spared. The tenants got it, too. I suppose everyone got used to the spectacle or simply put up with it. After all, no one wanted to fight the eccentric, old maniac. So, they let it be. The annoying twerp milling about with no purpose or consequence.

Our stay was brief and lasted no more than a year, when we found ourselves moving to another place we called home. But, that brief interlude of passage spent at Dumblore was formative, although it is the mighty blue hills and the wonderful trees that I will remember and cherish most. And, Rosy, too.

Nearly forty years have passed since. It would be a gross understatement to say that times have changed. They have, indeed. So have the topography and the landscape. The new has become old more than many times. The past is barely discernible. There are few people or elements that share this bygone era that now lingers in only in memory. Of the few that exist, they are scattered far and wide, unsure of meeting in the future. Perhaps, not inclined, too. Disconnected, you could say.

But, there's nothing that will fade the recollection of Dumblore. Not even the vagaries of time or the savageness of life. Nestled in a misty hill that has been pillaged endlessly and its remains conditioned for  countless monstrosities that have since cropped up, Dumblore still stands firm in my memory, as an icon, defiant in the face of changing times, as a momentary escape to fight life's passage, in an attempt to preserve something that is now lost forever, yet inconsequential. You may call this romanticizing the past. But, since when was being romantic a bad idea?

Forever, Dad!

 

It is widely accepted that by the time you realize your father was right, you would have a child who thinks you are wrong. Fortunately, for me, I did not have to get that far.While I would not lament too much on the supreme merits of a father's counsel or wisdom, I must acknowledge how that counsel and wisdom have benefitted me enormously over the course of my life. It is nothing short of a blessing to have been protected and cared for by someone so wise, in a manner so unique and unconditional. Or, very special, might I add.
 

It is now more than twenty days since our beloved father passed away. The void that he leaves behind is incomprehensible. It is also painfully unbearable. But, knowing the eternal truth, that one must pass over, is comforting in some small measure.
 

Our perspectives were very different. He based his life on empathy and compassion, I drive mine on the basis of practicality and purpose. We were poles apart. He was a reservoir of patience, while I am in a perpetual sense of hurry. He was accommodating, I am questioning. He found no fault, while I find fault even in perfection. But, the beacon of my life - driven by a sense of integrity and commitment - is a gift due to his doing. He taught me to be kind, compassionate, loving, and forgiving, even when there was no necessity. And, this is what made him larger than life. Above all else, if I am endowed with a sense of being non-judgemental, it remains entirely due to his perseverance. While I had scant tolerance, or regard, for his sense of unconditional humility, something he was so famously known for, I realize how much he valued humanity as a whole, regarding it as part of him and as a larger part of where he belonged. He is the closest that I will ever know of someone who had perfect harmony in what he thought, believed, and conducted. It is, I reckon, not possible for me to attain such a position of nobility!
 

This heartfelt account is by no means a eulogy or a tribute. I would like to see it as a memoir, a tiny recollection of such a vast and nearly faultless life, of service, duty, commitment, persistence, perseverance, and integrity, all of these in extraordinary measure, even during the most trying circumstances. Character, he defined, in an outstandingly saintly manner, is what one would do when one were not witnessed.
 

As I haltingly write this clumsy piece of prose, I am exceedingly in a position to question my own self, my life, my being, my existence - as to whether I would ever be half the person that he so easily was. I could only wish.
 

Truth is that I do not know where I would begin. There's so much, I know, that lies ahead and so much that has come to pass. If anything, I am extremely grateful for his stewardship and for the gift of his person. I know life would never be the same again. In the end, we have lost his form, not his person. And, I am immensely comforted by the memories of our togetherness and love, which will endure well into time.
 

For an incredibly proud and timeless legacy of truth, justice, and steadfast uprightness, thank you, Dad. You are forever. Rest in peace.

Are we Human?

Apart from the debilitating impact of the pandemic, globally, and in India, there is a larger crisis that is unfolding, here at home. One that so many of us are comfortably unaware of, as we whine and groan about the discomforts caused to us during the lockdown - even as we are comfortably holed up in our homes, treated to good fare and privileges.

Perhaps, never before, in our history, have we considered, acknowledged, or actually cared for the economically backward of our populace. Today, as an emergency unfolds, we are faced with a grim reality of the haves and the have-nots - of us and them.

So, as scores of us purportedly turn advisors, healthcare experts, newsmakers, and whatnot, on Facebook and other social media platforms, millions of migrant workers across the nation are grappling with what is a catastrophe of unparalleled scale and proportion - loss of income, food shortages, locked down in unfamiliar lands far from home, and a very grim and uncertain future concerning their livelihoods. As if those were not already enough, there is an exodus of migrants seeking to go back to their hometowns - almost often through extreme hardships - by foot, bicycles, and so on. Sadly, many of them do not make it to the end of their journeys.

If the stark images of a weeping Ram Pukar Pandit (the man from Begusarai, Bihar, who lost his son and was unable to make it for his funeral) and those of a mother dragging her child on a wheeled bag do not move you, I don't know what else will.

We are once again presented with stark realities of how unequal and divided we are as a nation. While a lot of us are enjoying our privileges and ensconced in a comfortable life, whiling away time to weather this storm, there is, evidently, a much larger section of people who cannot afford even the very basic necessities that you and I are so commonly and casually entreated to. Should this be a cause for concern? Well, it should be much more than that.

Such is the utilitarian demand for this body of people that our infrastructure, housing, sanitation, transportation, and a whole slew of other services that have and continue to benefit us have been due to the tiresome labour of these folks. I wouldn't be mistaken, therefore, to say that our economy is significantly supported by this echelon of people. It is estimated that a staggering 150 million people are migrant workers, far from the place they call home - only so that they can afford a square meal and seek hope in harshly painful uncertainty.

Now to explain to some hallowed souls why this rant of a post - Over the last few days images and videos of people scrambling about, scuffling and fighting to steal biscuits, wafers, and the likes have gone viral. Several armchair activists have been quick to guffaw and lambaste "the pathetic and immoral lot" and seek to educate them about values and decency. Twitter and Facebook are awash with advice and opinions on how these people, "these looters", should be treated and appropriately punished. Educated, erudite, and supposedly evolved people being volubly critical about the actions of a people who have been desperate, pushed to the edge, suffering in untold ways, and robbed of dignity. And, here were are, preaching morality and decency from the comforts of our homes, unaffected or unmoved by any measure of a tragedy that continues to unfold all around us. Our only concern, it seems, is to ride the moral high horses, as if were are a virtuous lot, free from blemish, of any sort. What a shame!

We may never experience anything close to the difficulties that some people are put through in life. And, mercifully so. But, how has our sense of empathy been so hard to find? Or did we ever have any compassion in us, at all? Or is it that we think that it is the burden of a certain section of people to slave-labour for the rest of us to thrive?

Image Courtesy: The Hindu

Marooned in Kerala

The scale of any tragedy can only be estimated. One could never possibly imagine the colossal scale of impact. Therefore, it is useless to pretend that one is able to. The situation in Kerala is no different.

Even as I write this, I cannot comprehend that over 661,000 people are presently displaced and there is a looming threat to thousands more. Over 350 people have lost their lives, and the destinies of their families have changed forever. Across the state are hastily organized relief camps where people are coming to terms with the misfortune that has befallen them. Over 200,000 people have taken refuge in over 1,500 relief camps across 14 districts of Kerala. As report after report streams in, the distressing picture of a state in misery is inescapable. It is also unparalleled and unprecedented.

And, during these distressing times, emerge heroic tales of compassion and selflessness. Men in uniform brave walls of water to ensure that lives are safe and the extent of the tragedy is mitigated, while ordinary men and women, fisherfolk and good samaritans, without any means, training, equipment, or comfort, comb neighbourhoods, night and day, to ensure a diligent and concerted search and rescue process, often disregarding grave perils to their own lives!

However, Kerala's woes are only beginning. Roads, bridges, and public infrastructure have been ruined. It is estimated that 10,000 kms of roads are damaged and require rebuilding. The scale of damage caused to houses across hundreds of villages and towns is unfathomable. Scores of villages lie inundated in water and debris, without power, communication systems, or access to relief measures. Essential supplies including provisions, potable water, medicines, fuel, food, clothing, beddings, etc., are in short supply. Corpses of dead animals lie littered in water, threatening an outbreak of disease and infection. The state of healthcare infrastructure to respond to the aftereffects of this tragedy cannot be immediately assessed. Entire plantations of cash crops lie devastated. The state government has pegged the economic loss at a staggering Rs. 195 billion (Rs. 19, 512 crores). These losses continue to mount even as I write this. The human cost and emotional impact of this tragedy are far from being calculable.

But, this outpouring of mine should not be construed as an abridged version of news reports. It isn't. Elsewhere, lately, there have been noises of the not so nice kind. It is being propagated that this tragedy has befallen us since we are lowly, immoral, and unholy 'beef-eaters', besides being utterly ungodly and uncivilized in desiring that our women be allowed the basic essential (not privilege) of equality to worship a Lord Ayyappa, who it seems, according to the archaic beliefs of some people, desires only male patronage! It is futile, I know, to reason with nitwits whose intellectual disabilities do not permit them to comprehend cultural beliefs outside of their own tiny and seemingly important realms of existence, that they glorify as being the holy grail of living. No, that is not how this tragedy has come about. Not due to the wrath of gods, nor in the consumption of the holy cow. But, yes, due to a blatant disregard for the environment, and the proximate cause being the incessant downpour that has struck us mercilessly and unabated for months. But, this is not the time for a post-mortem. Not yet. There will be agencies, bodies, and commissions of enquiry, established exclusively for that purpose. They will, in turn, determine, rightfully so, that beef, gods, and religion have nothing to do with floods and natural disasters. However, I'm not sure if that inference would satisfy those relics steeped in mindless and medieval attitudes. There is simply no cure for foolishness and the rest of us have little choice but to endure the pain of sharing the world with such imbeciles. However, mercifully, such dim-witted, gormless, and unintelligent voices are not the reflection of the population at large. They are isolated and individual at best.

Now, it is imperative that I state the purpose of this write-up. It is, as I mentioned before, not the summary of news reports to aggregate facts and figures. Neither is it an opinion to counter the mindless voices of some severely disordered who continue to attribute wildly insane reasons to the cause of this grave tragedy that has struck millions. This post is to express gratitude to nations and people who, from far and wide, across the boundaries of cultures, borders, and religions, have stood with us in solidarity during our time of grief and misery. Your support in gesture, kind, and capital are acts of kindness that we shall, forever, remain indebted and grateful for. It has reaffirmed in us, once again, that during calamity, we can stand together as one, to shoulder each other, in exactly the manner which is expected of us. During these trying times, we are witness to extraordinary feats of courage and selflessness by ordinary people whose zeal and zest allow us the gift of life. Armies of volunteers, military and medical personnel, government officials, and ordinary people continue to brave incomprehensible dangers to ensure that further lives are not lost. This is a true reflection of the unequivocally positive nature of the human spirit and its endeavour. It is this gift that keeps us alive, literally! But, Kerala is in need of a whole lot more. There is so much that needs to be done and we could do our bit, in our own way. No act of kindness is small, inconsequential, or insignificant.

As the moral and social philosopher, Erich Hoffer once said, "the hardest arithmetic to master is that which enables us to count our blessings." That is what I find myself doing today, an atheist in prayer, one who is counting his blessings for the fortune that he continues to enjoy.

If you are in an affected zone, here is how you can request for help: https://keralarescue.in/request/ 

To contribute in kind, please see https://keralarescue.in/reg_contrib/ 

To contribute to the Chief Minister's Distress Relief Fund, please see https://donation.cmdrf.kerala.gov.in/ 

Important Announcements on the Floods in Kerala: https://keralarescue.in/announcements/ 

A list of relief camps across Kerala: https://keralarescue.in/relief_camps_list 

Relief Camp Requirements: https://keralarescue.in/camp_requirements/ 

List of Registered Requests (District-wise): https://keralarescue.in/requests/?district= 

District Needs & Collection Centers: https://keralarescue.in/district_needs/ 

Register as Volunteer: https://keralarescue.in/volunteer/ 

NGO/Company Registration for Volunteering: https://keralarescue.in/NGO/ 

District level point of contacts: https://keralarescue.in/contactus/ 

Map view of Relief Resources and Flooded Streets: https://keralarescue.in/map-view/ 

Google Person Finder (Kerala Floods): https://google.org/personfinder/2018-kerala-flooding 

Putting Pen to Paper

Sometimes, somethings take a lifetime.

A few days ago, on a whim, I did something I hadn't done for a very long time. Strolling into a stationery shop, I bought myself a bottle of ink. Whether it is to make good on a lifetime of deplorable handwriting, or to be able to revisit a time and an age that is most cherished, I wouldn't know - but, the feeling was one of monumental excitement and enthusiasm.

Diligently washing and cleaning a modest collection of fountain pens that hadn't seen light in more than a decade, I felt an overwhelming sense of nostalgia, a powerful, gripping recollection of the past. A torrent of memories arrived, unleashed, as if freed forever, from a dark, deep abyss, that had contained and restrained them for what seemed a measure of eternity.

And, then, the words poured, haltingly at first, then steadily, as if they had been reassured of a definite indestructible path, until, in the accompanying of their joyous arrival, the outpouring reached a celebration of sorts - words lending form to thoughts emancipated from their cavernous hold, where they lay concealed and buried, strangled and lifeless, forgotten and consigned, until the chance action out of an impulse had finally set them free.

Truly, somethings take a lifetime.

On the Nature of Daylight

Max Richter is a very gifted being. If being a musician isn't beatific enough, he makes the sort of music that cannot quite be catalogued as belonging to any particular genre. The outcome of his pursuit is much beyond music; it is a certain substitute for language itself, the kind of expression that requires little articulation, in comparison to the burdensome semantics of any language, but can be understood clearly and instantly. His work has a certain subliminal effect of appealing to the innermost self as an intensely powerful substance that can evoke a multitude of feelings - truly rapturous and capable of consigning the beholder to faraway worlds and places that have no names or directions. Yet, that is merely the beginning.

The tone of his music plumbs depths that are deeper than the fathomless, the undiscernable. Profound and penetrating, in so many ways, and so much beyond description, there is considerable evenness, and yet the avoidance of any obvious structure or form, causing cataclysmic euphoria, like nothing else. While there is a very steady pulse, often throughout each piece, the distinction lies in the absence of any strong culmination. It causes the beholder to remain in a zone of the eternal. Perhaps, this is a very conscious effort to render it formless or minimalistic, and yet enormously evocative and haunting.

But what is most characteristic of Richter's music is not the music, it is the sensation of it - the undefined and yet permanent effect of the ephemeral, or the transient nature of feelings and emotions that it so skillfully causes to examine. Like a déjà vu, a deeply intuitive experience that is familiar only for a brief moment and is soon incomprehensible.

In creating what he has, Richter has ventured beyond limits of the classical and the postmodern, and his work, often interspersed, is a demonstration of his creative brilliance. However, that is the material part. What lies beyond is how his music seeks to offer a perspective, to the mind, to experience passions and sentiments as they are called upon by the notes and the hues, the feeling of the indescribable, the observation of memories, the trail of thoughts, and a glimpse of the unknown, of what is perhaps consciousness itself.

With Winter Gone

The notion of normality or the purpose to seek normalcy is perhaps the biggest undoing of our lives. It is a hideous fallacy. Nothing is normal. There is no state of normalcy. Normalcy can at best be defined as a state of inertia or inertness - 'as having no inherent power of action, motion, or resistance.' Normalcy is also perhaps indicative of the only kind of certainty there is - that of mortality.

In truth, there is only change, the transcendental, the evolutionary. The human mind, linear, and morbidly fearful that it is, refuses to accept this ultimate truth. It goes as far as even rejecting it and drumming down all notions that contradict the acceptable. Not surprising then to see how people, collectives, and organizations spend a lifetime defining structures, systems, and processes in a quest to attain a normal state of being. Our institutions and social systems are built on this premise - contrived by linear beliefs and ignorant or disregarding of contrast. Consequently, so much of life is unseen, unknown, and unexplored. Worse, life is oft lived in a state of not being able to deal with life itself!

The intricacies of our lives are aplenty. They come in all forms and dimensions - overt, subtle, or unseen. But, they are there nevertheless. We don't see it, though, for we are consumed in defining our lives in the paradigm of what is normal and acceptable. In keeping with the need to exact purpose, form, and structure, we are caught in a compulsion to see and define things as being absolute, normal, and complete, as a means, as the ultimate.

The truth couldn't be further from this. The truth is that life is dynamic, as momentary as the clouds in the sky, and as formless as the river that runs its course.

Birds of Paradise

It is late in the afternoon. As I sit on the porch to savour this beautiful moment of calm stillness, soaking in the intensely beautiful greenery all around, a lot of movements catch my eye. It is magical and picturesque, to say the least - like a silent motion picture abuzz with countless characters in perfect harmony. With the sun preparing its descent, long creeping shadows fall across the expanse. There is a mild breeze, and it is quite cold this winter day. What appears to be a Honey Buzzard, one of the many species of raptors found in this region, circles overhead calling out intently, mimicking the cry of a kitten. A restless pair of Racket-tailed Drongos flitter about trying to catch insects mid-flight, putting up a spectacular dance of sorts in the air. Warblers, colourful and in plenty, hop about in unison, like a well-choreographed troupe of performers milling about to silent orchestration. Scaly-breasted Munias, an entire community of them, have descended on the wayward grassy patch, diligently scouring it and feeding on grass seeds.

Not far away, a pair of Sunbirds flitter about on the bushy Hibiscus plant, constantly hovering about near the flowers and drilling tiny holes on them in a dexterous effort to extract nectar. Surely, modern-day aviation must have designed the intricacies of mid-air refuelling, learning the ropes from these wonderful birds. A Vernal Hanging Parrot arrives to perch on a Banana plant. For a moment, it does absolutely nothing except to slowly tilt its head in a comical motion. Having satisfied itself, it ambles its way, rather clumsily, to the large unripe cluster of fruits. However, the fruits are not its objective. The heart-shaped crimson-coloured inflorescence, or the 'banana-heart', is what this creature is after. Settling down on the edge in a precarious balance, it begins a meticulous process of tearing away the bracts and extracting nectar.

Meanwhile, on the Silver Oak tree, a family of Scarlet Minivets, bright orange and yellow, are milling about, hopping across branches. They are not alone! Unperturbed by their going about, a flock of Magpie Robins dart to the ground below and make off to the tree, with insects, where they can devour them. It appears to be some sort of a merry-go-round with these radiant white and black creatures jumping about and flying back to their perches of safety and repeating themselves endlessly. Elsewhere, a funny looking White-cheeked Barbet descends on a Papaya tree and investigates the possibility of cutting up a fruit. But, the tender fruit is not ripe yet and the bird abandons its endeavour and flies away, perhaps to locate another possibility.

The neighbouring coffee estate abounds with hectic activity. A Greater Coucal is noisily foraging in the undergrowth. It hops about in a very unbirdlike manner and its striking red eyes stare at me ominously before satisfying itself of the inconsequential nature of my being. Not far away, an extended family of noisy Red-whiskered and Black-collared Bulbuls are enjoying themselves in the bird bath. Vying ardently to secure a moment longer at the bath, they fight and scramble among themselves causing a roisterous ruckus, while a more gentle and well-mannered pair of spotted doves walk about on the courtyard, nibbling scattered grain. And, there are sparrows! Where couldn't they be! A crew of sparrows has perched assertively on prime spots of real-estate - the bushy juvenile Mango tree in the courtyard, the White Bauhinia, the electricity line, and wherever 'sparrowly' possible. From their vantage sit-out, they scurry about to gather grain or seeds and aggressively drive away all competition - often, many times their size!

But, unbeknown to them all is a pair of intent eyes, regarding every move with malevolent glare and discerning these happenings as if to be ready and to pounce on an unsuspecting visitor, like a blitzkrieg! However, on this pristine day, there would be no casualties. His Royal Majesty, Lord Fudicus Cattus Fudicus, aka the Mighty Lord Puddix, the benevolent ruler of the stately provinces of Wayanad, and of our humble home  - the friendly (and opportunistic) neighbourhood tabby is satiated after a veritable meal of leftover fish heads. He is no mood for ambush and so, his subjects, our winged visitors, have survived to live another day, in what is surely paradise regained!

The Ramparts of 2017

Aside from Franck Vergh's magnificent monochromatic memories of the cold war times, Jason Silva's marvellous insights about anything under the sun, George Carlin's timeless, bold, and extremely hilarious views, David Whyte's intensely wise summations of life itself, and some of the finest books that I have so voraciously and passionately consumed, this year has been one of epic passings. What prevailed during the beginning has long since come to pass, and what occurs now was hardly speculated. In that sense, it has brought about such a phenomenal depth of change that the very scale of it seems incomprehensible in hindsight. To sum it up, life's been shaken and stirred!

But, I couldn't be happier to have gotten outside of my comfort zone, that little inconsequential, paltry, and stale cocoon, with its perpetual shadows and inhibited views. It reeked of putrid familiarity and wasted charm to be in there. Some sort of arrested existence, as if a veil had hideously enveloped the senses and prevented comprehension. Inertia couldn't be better defined.

So, symbolic as it seems to welcome a new beginning, it is, for me, equally important to consign away relics of the old and await the promises and possibilities of the new, and that is truly what life's purpose seems - to let go and to embrace in the spirit of worthy passage and to continue a journey of curiosity and contentment.

May we find new horizons!

The Human Faculty

I'm oft left to wonder how the human mind could construct a form in ways that cannot possibly be imagined and yet be thoroughly enthralling, to say the least. Take, for instance, art, literature, music, or cinema. It is ceaselessly amazing to witness and celebrate human creativity and to realize how marvellous our minds truly are.

What would be more wonderful than to feel absolute rapture, exaltation, and awe when one chances upon a good book or when listening to some fine music? You could say the same about a lot of other things - the outcomes of creative human endeavour and the expression that it results in.

I wonder what fuels creativity. Is it passion? Or desire? Could circumstances and the manner in which one's perceptive abilities are oriented contribute to creative expression? But, I suppose my question is rather purposeless. I should be asking if we reward creativity enough, for it to be taken (and pursued) seriously

Sure, it is easy to imagine a world without human beings - but, would it be easy to comprehend a world without the expression of human creativity?

Silence

What do you make of silence? The experience of extreme quiet, away from all the mechanized din that takes up every moment of life on the wheel (you know what a hamster wheel is, don't you?). What does it take to stop, to examine, to breath, and to revel in nothingness? To let thoughts flow unremittingly and without restraint or consequence, to let go of plans and desires, wants and needs, ambitions and goals. What would it take, even for a moment?

And then, I pause to look up at those marvellous, tall trees that tower into eternity, uttering not so much as even a whimper about the prominence of their timeless existence, the wind that carries along, all-permeating, and yet subtle, the birds and the beasts, their calls never out of place or unsuitable in the world they are a part of, the elements and their natural accordance, all in perfect symmetry and synchrony. How much there is to celebrate in awe the wonder of the natural world. How magical it seems to revel in the perfection and yet the elementary, everyday occurrences of nature. How proverbial, poetic, and romantic it is to be able to partake in this marvel.

Why is it that the noises we make are so damningly difficult to live with? Why don't we fit into the natural world with the same ease and adeptness that all other beings possess? The answer is perhaps in the understanding that we do not belong in such soulful sanctuaries. And, suddenly this realization, momentary as it is, allows me to contend with the miseries that grip my life - the senseless chatter emanating from the television, the odious ringing and beeps of the cellphone, the inconsiderate, distasteful, and uncharitable garble of people around and about, the nauseating pandemonium of vehicles and everything artificial, the commotion and racket of all farcical, clownish religious establishments (and their equally appalling proponents). I could write endlessly about this.

But, silence or just the thought of it - it is meditatively calming and soulful. In silence, I could live on, forever.

Lone Fox Dancing

Books are gateways to idyllic journeys into far-off worlds. They are expeditions of indulgence, for in undertaking such voyages, one is transported to enchanting places and multitudes of emotions. And, as indulgent I am in such gleeful delights, which is, I suppose, the supreme pleasure, of most bibliotaphs, oftentimes, I find myself buying more books than I can possibly consume.

So, one morning, on a whim, and to fight off a gripping sense of inertia that has overrun me lately, I went about to rummage my stockpile (not a 'collection,' since I haven't graduated to such an exalted stature, nor I possibly will), to find myself staring at the 'Lone Fox Dancing' - The Autobiography of Ruskin Bond, a treasure I had acquired not so long so.

To say that the prose was eclectic would be an act of self-aggrandizement and arrogance on my part (for I possess no skills or qualifications to review such a prodigy). But, say it, I nevertheless will, for that is how this master chronicler has woven his account.

Not so long after, I trudged about on winding paths in the misty hills on which stood tall pine and deodar. Overcome by a deep sense of nostalgia (of times from my own childhood spent in the hills of Ooty), I began to understand the ways of a man who had trounced the oft-inescapable (and enforced) notion of a regular life - to search for freedom, for deliverance, to undertake a peregrination of his longing - 'to put pen to paper', as he called it. It wasn't fanciful or lucrative. Far from it, actually. Steeped in strain and struggle, it conveyed the unbounded eagerness of a man resolved to do what he loved. Not that he envisioned it would take him any place. I suppose he didn't care for the outcomes as much as he was enthralled by the machinations of his life and the blissful wilderness that he was so purposefully ensconced in. I doubt he cares even now.

Bond's account is not macerated with his literary pursuits. While there are rich portrayals of that endeavour, the book is much larger than that effort. It is life itself, the comings and goings of people, the rich description of deep, personal emotions associated with such occurrences, some pleasant, others acerbic. It is a work of outstanding artistry that quite effortlessly articulates the mind of a reticent man (in which, being quite withdrawn myself, I found reassuring comfort and tenderness)

In the end, which came about much sooner than I had expected, I was left feeling joyful and troubled - The first for obvious reasons, while the latter for having finished the book all too soon!

But, deep within my being will remain etched forever those snow-capped hills, bungalows from a distant past, coniferous trees, the taste of tangy apricots, and the astounding views from a window that opens to the mountains.

Long may the lone fox dance! 

Moments at Sunset

Our most valuable possession is life itself, for in its span we strive to add meaning and purpose to our existence, explore possibilities, realize potential, build relationships, foster creativity, enliven with hope, make memories and commit to evolve our being. 

But the most striking distinction of all is that we are given an opportunity to be part of a unique tapestry of infinite magnificence and incomprehensible riches. We must, therefore, be eternally grateful for this priceless gift and should endlessly cherish this wonderful marvel because only in doing so do we find true happiness!

Footnote:

Picture taken in Gorai, Mumbai on 28 January 2016

The Scorcher

I am blessed with comrades, some of who are pundits in the most bizarre sense! They seem oblivious to the obvious while lamenting at length about possibilities galore. Naturally, imaginations run unrestrained, or, perhaps more appropriately put, illogical.

Now, before you begin to wonder what the bone of contention really is; a certain 'enlightened' someone who is adept in the written word, most casually put forth their 'humble point of view' that there was no bigger sham than that of climate change! Terming the phenomenon as unfounded and largely unscientific, it was argued that this 'ongoing scare' was 'overrated' beyond measure. According to their, ahem, most humble opinion, this was a 'tactic' employed by intergovernmental agencies in order to gain a foothold in the scheme of everyday things, due to they being largely ignored or, according to this wisdom-extraordinaire, not being given their place and due!

Just as one thought uncharacteristic of the aggressive, yet nonsensical campaigning of a certain taco bell loving billionaire and, more recently, the statements of a Harvard educated Indian sociopath, and the rabid pronunciations of a former and failed Indian politician against the nation's Prime Minister on a TV show, this seems to outwit all of them put together, and by epic proportions.

One need only look at the plaguing problems India has been facing lately (not that India is a lone victim of climate change). I reckon it wouldn't take even the most dense minds to misunderstand that climate change is a hideous reality, which unfortunately cannot be wished away! Entire regions facing drought, crop failures, menacingly rising temperatures and almost perennial water shortages should suffice to indicate, i suppose.

Well, i'm expected to end this diatribe without further commotion, but before i leave, i'm curious to know the cause for such a dimwitted assertion; What must have caused your exalted self to falter, i wonder. Was it the extra-strong tobacco that you weren't quite used to? Perhaps the tawdry weed thy smoked for intellectual pursuits? Or, am i entirely wrong blaming the condition on commodities?

The Woes of My Life

It isn't home anymore. Not the warmth i knew of. Far from it, truth be told. The serenity of my land has long gone. There are only memories left. Today, there is despair and bitterness. My lands are parched and my life is barren.

Not long ago, i had a dream. A dream that meant fulfillment and prosperity. I laboured interminably to enliven that dream. What of it, you may ask. I know not words to explain. I reckon you know my plight already.

My life has been grim. I'm a kind that is now forgotten and relegated to statistics. Meek and impoverished they call me. Politicians sympathize in their deceitful ways. Others, like you, couldn't be more apathetic. Yet, it is my kind that feeds the nation; a staggering billion and more mouths that would be penurious should i embark upon another vocation. No, i speak not with pride, but with angst. This has been my trade, my life, and i do not know another.

Slowly, there are many in my fold who have done away with their lands - their prized possessions handed down through generations. In search of hopeful prospects, they have departed long ago. Why must i not be tempted or forced? There are these new breed of nouveau riche 'developers' lining up at my door with enticing bids, and threats.

Have you, with your know-hows, not read of my quandary? That i tread miles to fetch pales of water to irrigate my fields, and that my children toil under the merciless sun, to say but a few of the many! Oh, what would you know of my predicament? Your cushy jobs and demanding lives would only add to the indifference! Entire villages starve for the lack of water or food. The rains seem eons away. Our crops have failed and our brethren kill themselves. To us, this is desolation. To you this is statistic. There lies the difference.

However, my missive is not all stark. I would like to also imagine a future. One that brings us all that we ever sought. One that makes our lives truly gratifying. Does that sound Utopian? Perhaps, your 'learned sense' does describe it so. Well, it would certainly sound idealistic to many, far too many. And this is because, our future isn't going to be any easier than what it is today, is it? Our fields and farms will make way for buildings, hideous monstrosities of glass and steel, that vie with another to become landmarks of prestige and architectural aesthetics. Our trees would have long been felled to feed endless reams of paper into those fancy devices in your snazzy offices. Rivers and streams would have long been destroyed. Of those left, water would hardly be considered potable. Perhaps, you could consider stocking up your favorite brands of aerated fizz!

What would become of my tribe then, would you ask? As they say 'dead as a Dodo, of course!'

Oh, i know a thing or two that will remain though. Your colossal egos that are dismissive of realities, and your repugnant sense of avarice!

Footnotes:

Written in the backdrop of the prevailing drought in Maharashtra

Lost words found again!

Often, there comes a spell, like passing clouds in a sky.
These moments, how they call emphatically.
For they define, though only for a moment, a state of being.

When the dust settles, one discerns that times have changed,
and life is anew. It is, perhaps, in such passing that
journeys begin, and dreams are forged.

All of life is an endeavour to see afresh, joyful hope to seek
and comprehend. Many moons shall pass, and so will those sights.
Only perspectives change leaving realities untainted.

Wanderers we are, of ephemeral nature.
In our moments we shall only accomplish rapture.
It is to ourselves that we shall bring wonder,
should our minds be a passage to the inner.

Goodbye Bombay!

Bombay is not a city. It is a spirit, something of a cult status, perhaps even an extremely personal feeling that has grown from deep within due to the inimitable sights and sounds of a very unique being; a world that cannot exist in parallel. It is not home to people, but to countless dreams that oscillate with fervour and passion in the minds of its beholders prompting them to relentlessly engage in an enduring pursuit called life. It is, perhaps, the single largest importer of dreams, which it permits to be endlessly bartered with the most powerful currency that exists, the currency of hope! But, it may not be a destination as many choose to see it, for it has its bias, like any other - between building and breaking, as often as it will. Of which side it has its tilt towards, one can never actually tell.

The sea that almost surrounds it is not merely an expansive body of water. It can metaphorically be likened to the mind that is constantly engulfed in waves, rattling a person between perpetually definitive states of action and lifeless inertia. While it is regarded as an incomparable beacon of life, it is also mercilessly adept in taking away the living breath, startling its subjects, never offering even so much as a requiem for the departed. Bombay is in many ways synonymous to time, to life itself.

To many, it tenders spectacular offerings of transformation, with promises that are eclectic, irreversible and soaring, not unlike the innumerable skyscrapers that imposingly tower into the skies, seemingly blurring the distance between earth and the heavens. Several others aren't so fortunate. They find themselves in constant trepidation, inundated by woes and demands of life, fallen dreams and squalor of sorts. But, it is home nevertheless. Feeding and sheltering, in varied ways, its dwellers, among which are the bipedal, four-legged, legless and many more vastly and differently constituted.

They say Bombay has only two kinds of people; Those who visit, certain to leave and the others who arrive to remain for generations. So, by that account, i would regard myself to be a traveller who was swept by time with a prearranged interlude of passage. And, in that pause, this tutor extraordinaire would have left in me deep and indelible marks of a life so unique, promises so divine, possibilities so real, people so distinct and experiences so full. And then, it was time to move on.

I shall forever be thankful to it for the wonderful times, brilliant friendships, endless treats to history, and soulful memories that have made life worth celebrating. From the quaint streets of Colaba, to the bustling seaside of Bandra, the resplendent Fort and the iconic Marine Drive, and the stretches from Juhu to Borivali, some reminiscences are eternal.

So as i bid adieu to this mighty megapolis, a place where everything matters, and yet nothing does, a place which was home for what seemed eternity and yet only for an instant, hues of many scintillating moments are now etched deep within.

And, i will forever remember its most valuable teaching - that survival is not an option; it is life itself!

Footnotes:

Written in aftermath

The Living Daylights

Winter mornings in Kerala aren't symbolic or significant. There is a nip in the morning air and the rest is quite the usual. Winters in most parts of Kerala are only indicative of dates on a calendar. They are not a season to expect or experience, particularly along the coastline that is weathered down with searing heat and insufferable humidity.

Some seven hours and a hundred and forty miles away, in Ooty, one wouldn't dare say the same! Nestled in blue mountains, and dotted with conifer and oak, the winds there have a reputation, a notoriety of sorts. Even the arriving sun wouldn't muster enough courage to battle the dew drops of the night before or the omnipresent breeze that can be bone-chilling. Refuge, therefore, is best sought under the covers, many layers of them, until it is deemed appropriate to set about into the day that wouldn't be very different from how it began - sleepy, cold and lethargic!

On the morning of 26 January 2001, when i was roused earlier than usual, i knew it had to be something very important, rather significant. Groggily walking up to the telephone and placing it to my ear, which had now been numbed by the chills, i was greeted by an excited voice who sought to urgently but happily convey an 'arrival.' There were four, she had remarked, and all of them entirely different. I sat up listening to the details and a surge of excitement energized me into exhilaration. As i replaced the receiver onto the cradle, i smiled to myself. Unbeknown to me, i was setting off a chain of events that would last over twelve years. Twelve years today, is close to a third of my life.

Less than forty days after that telephone call, i set foot in Cannanore to begin a new phase. It would be my home for over two years. No sooner had i landed, i paid the 'arrivals' a visit. They were four. Very different, and no larger than fully grown squirrels, huddled up in a corner with their mother. Mixed in lineage, of Chihuahua, Daschund and Terrier, they were a curious lot. Noisy, frolicking and funny, the first you'd notice of them was the attitude they wore and carried; four bundles of fur and the mother were seen trudging along like royalty, never letting go of an opportunity to bark away even at the tiniest object that evoked curiosity or fright.

After a protracted battle with fellow contenders, owners-in-waiting, i settled on one, the one - the little girl with a sandstone coat, not unlike a lion cub, with a fierce temperament, whose idea of a warm welcome was to deliver a sharp bite. For some four weeks that i was her custodian, our roles transformed. Our identities had differed. She was no longer a pet and i no longer a custodian. We were contemporaries instead; she quadruped and i biped. Though devoid of a tail, and different in constitution, i became fast friends with her and it increasingly appeared that she chose me as opposed to the notion that i picked her. Soon, she had a name, one that reflected her person, nature, attitude and being, in all appropriateness and likening - i named her Simbha; signifying the fearless.

April of 2001 we set about to begin a journey that would take us southward, to what would be her ultimate home, in the mountains, in Ooty. Dog and human, in feverish excitement, yet thick of wariness, began their journey mindful that each hadn't undertaken such a monumental feat ever before. Several pairs of curious eyes spied us as we seated ourselves in a bus that was to conduct us to the end of an eight hour journey, transporting us across two neighbouring states, from one home to another!

Arriving home, in Ooty, we received a rousing reception, the new arrival and me, her batman! But Dad would instantly, at his first meeting with her, quip loudly about how tiny as a kitten she looked - a remark that wouldn't go well with her and remain unforgotten till the very end. A month later, when i returned to check on her, she had ingrained herself into the family and bonded very well, having established a place in the hierarchy. Dad was the man who brought supplies - essential in the pecking order, but not one to be very good friends with. Mum was the 'master,' or the mistress in this case; head of the family, an institution to be served with love and loyalty. And then, there were us, Deepu and i, brothers, who were her pets! So, in effect, we had a dog that looked like a cat, and kept pet humans!

The biped 'pets' had rooms for themselves, but visited no more than twice or thrice every year. Their bedding could thus be used to sleep over, jump about like a trampoline and mess up at will. Carpets served as nap stations. The telephone was an object of never-ending curiosity and the television was a mystic glowing box that was to be stared into along with Mum, every evening. The driveway served as a sunning cum watch station, spent barking at passers and chasing birds and cats. And Dad, the supplies guy, was only useful for the late evening snack he offered, before and after which he could be barked, snarled and growled at.

Years passed. My quests took me across the country, crisscrossing Delhi, Pune, Chennai and Mumbai. She remained at home with Mum all along, by her side, supplying her with unending love and limitless compassion. She mastered the art of multiplying happiness, without condition, and spoke volumes with her loving eyes and baring fangs! She charmed us, every bit of the way and we lapped it up seeking more of what she could offer, and offer she did beyond our needs, much further than what each of us were destined for.

In 2009, Mum was diagnosed with peripheral neuropathy - a process resulting in damage to nerves of the peripheral nervous system. It was a sunny summer afternoon in Pune, after my short visit to Ooty, when my phone buzzed indicating Dad's call and the details thereafter. I wasn't sure of how to receive the news and rattled at what the implications could be. Ignorance apart from being blissful can also be scary, when met with a sudden realization of what would be. Deepu was away in Chennai. This meant either of us were a few hours from home, painfully unable to respond to any crisis that may emerge. Eventually, Mum would seek medical assistance outside of Ooty for over 10 months leaving Simbha devastated, depressed and on the brink. I cannot recollect another period in time when she hasn't been by Mum's side other than this excruciating phase which had taken a miserable toll on either. Being reunited with Mum in 2010 was perhaps the happiest part of Simbha's life. Her joy seemed limitless and there appeared a promise of hope. Since then, like before, she would always accompany Mum on her long-distance travels wherever she went, dutifully by her side, slinking away into the shadows, but steadfastly remaining with her at all times. While Mum's doctors continue to wonder and often remark about the brilliant progress she has made at recovery, we have known better - of Simbha's perseverance and consequent success in making the impossible happen. It was dramatic and moving to watch her prod Mum to walk, as she laboured hard to make even one step possible. Bounding off a distance, pausing to look behind and then mildly letting out a woof, she would urge Mum to go forward to her. The activity continued for months, until the patient felt little of the terrible woes that once incapacitated her. I wouldn't attribute it to medical sciences alone. Miracles surely are a part of life too, and in our case, it came on four legs, brandishing a short tail.

Returning home on vacations, Deepu and i were accorded receptions befitting royalty, complete with a welcoming ceremony that would last almost forever. No sooner had that come to a close, she quickly reminded us where our respective places in the hierarchy stood - but not once, without love or kindness, of which she was a living embodiment. She was cuddled, treasured and celebrated, and in return blessed us with love, the kind we hadn't ever seen or experienced before.

Earlier this year, when i visited Ooty for the last time as a resident, Simbha appeared to look her age. She had turned twelve only days before. Her gait and disposition hadn't slowed one bit though. With boundless energy, she charged forward and lept into my arms dressing my face with warm snuzzles and spoke to me with the same intonation that she was used to. However, i couldn't help but notice how twelve years had transformed her - from a bouncing pup to an octogenarian lady at the prime of her age, at the evening of it. There weren't many outward signs of her deterioration, but i knew she was rapidly being consumed from within. Time is an unkind element, badgering the weak, accelerating their pace to oblivion faster than it can possibly be imagined. Perhaps, it is nature's way of deliverance, of liberation, from the woes of the inevitable. Even so, her fire never vanquished. I gather it was too powerful even for time to quell with its pitiless spell. Happy and full of life, running about and deep spirited she carried herself with the disposition of a warrior, surveying the expanses of her empire with the air of a conqueror. I wondered if i'd meet her again. The thought hung on vividly like a bad memory, recalled at every passing instant. Her eyes conveyed reassurance; comforting me that this wasn't about to be the end. I dabbled with doubt and belief, torn in anxiety while she looked up at me more than once with a glance as if to chide me for having tormented myself about something that hadn't yet happened. I returned to Mumbai, not comforted but hopeful. It was a promise that i felt would be honoured. Eventually, the cacophony of everyday life replaced my bother.

Seeking warmer climes, my parents decided to relocate from Ooty this March. Dad had relocated there in 1966 and Mum followed in 1978 after her marriage to him. I arrived in 1979 and Deepu in 1983. Simbha, the third in the line of a tribe of luminary-extraordinaire, arrived in 2001. My quests set me from home in 1996. Returning periodically and setting off to where my pursuits took me, Ooty remained, until earlier this year, home to return to. Though I hadn't been living in Ooty for over a decade now, to imagine permanent relocation of what was home wasn't easy. As a family, we hadn't done it ever before, much less imagined it. Ooty was our base, our hub of life. To conjure the image of another destination in its place was simply unthinkable. But the realities of life often permit that the unthinkable happens! Our home of some three decades sold, parents and Simbha moved to Wayanad, solely assisted by Deepu. I stayed out of the operation, frightfully intimidated at coming to terms with the colossal change.

Early in May this year, i arrived in Wayanad on my maiden visit. As is custom, Simbha welcomed me with unwavering love and livened up my holiday. Extremely cheerful and playful, she brought out the child in me, constantly reminding me that happiness and contentment are central themes of life, all important inspirations upon which our fundamentals should be based. A week sped by in minutes. The close of any vacation isn't easy. This one was doubly difficult. Preparing to leave before daybreak, i strode into her room and picked up a sleeping Simbha. I was surprised at the absence of the usual growl when disturbed. Holding her under her forelegs, clasped within my palms, her paws shot skywards while her hinds loosely hung in the air - a position i often put her in, not unlike the description of Mocassin, Piscine Patel's cat, from Yann Martel's celebrated book Life of Pi. She looked at me groggily, struck by the sudden unease at being roused up at an ungodly hour. Bringing her close, i kissed on her forehead and cheeks and hugged her firm. Still no growls. Her eyes conveyed nothing. They seemed to absorb, and not reflect. I was puzzled. Setting her on the floor, i strode out while she scampered off to her cushion to continue her momentarily troubled slumber. Hours later, when i got off the plane in Mumbai, i was still wondering if i would be blessed to meet her again. There were no answers. Only questions remained.

August 19 was different. It began on a very promising and interesting note. A sense of victory in casting away bygones into the past was endearing. That Monday morning, i began with zeal and energy that hadn't been felt in a long time. Tim Robbins couldn't have been more accurate when, as banker Andy Dufresne, in Shawshank Redemption, he remarked to Ellis Redding (Morgan Freeman) that "hope drives a man insane." My sentiment that Monday morning was not any different. But, remember Baz Luhrmann and his Sunscreen, where he says "The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday." Well, only this time, it was a Monday evening and strangely at 4pm!

I hadn't noticed Mum's call coming in at 1810. Neither did i observe Deepu's text of some 10 minutes after. Mum and Dad were in Cannanore attending a family occasion. They had arrived there with Simbha some two days ago and were set to return soon.

At about 1945, as i ambled out, i fished out my phone and ran through a list of unanswered calls, emails and texts. Those from Mum and Deepu stood out like a sore thumb. Even before reading Deepu's message, i knew instinctively what had happened. Deepu's text merely confirmed it. Oddly, i was greeted by the sight of an intrigued Labrador pup intently looking at me as he was being led away. His eyes were transfixed on me. I was puzzled. It took an awfully long while for the bolt to sink in. I decided against returning Mum's call, instead texted Deepu and set about going, not knowing how or what i felt. My mind was fighting the feeling. An increasing sense of denial was to set in, soon giving way for realization that dawned in a rather dull and ugly comportment. My thoughts mirrored the commotion outside, like endless blinding lights of automobiles, scattered and vying to find a way toward a destination their masters intended them to. Blazing horns and the painful clamour of an evening commute made the feeling worse, close to gut wrenching. It soon grew to become anger.

At 2034, i dialled Mum and heard a somber voice that battled hard to keep tears at bay. I fought too. The sense of anger that had now enveloped me made it easier. Gritting my teeth and clenching my fist, i restrained as hard as i could, aware that every beginning had to have a definite end. Less than 3 minutes into the call, i hung up asking to call later. We both wanted time to reorganize ourselves, comprehend and come to terms with a situation that was complex. In such times, silence is a preferred alternative.

At 2127, i rang up Mum a second time. She recounted the day and how they had been troubled by Simbha's growing unease. Handfed meagerly and accepting no more than a few drops of water from Mum, she bounded off, away from watchful eyes and into immortality. The end had come at about 1610. We both agreed on what had truly been a monumental being of extraordinary love.

Between 2151 and 2224, Deepu and i exchanged calls, often stopping off to ring back. Difficult moments ensued. Sobbing painfully, he recounted his lasting meeting with her and how he had departed without farewell, something that was bizarre. I sensed enormous guilt and grief, but did little to console, knowing that time would do a better job. We cried together. Nothing had united us so much in pain and grief before. It was a first. I recollected how Simbha's predecessors had passed on in our youth. Perhaps childhood offers a better mechanism to deal with bereavement, i thought. Or maybe we were too oblivious to comprehend back then. Possibly the strength of adolescence was formidable. Age can make a destitute of emotion.

Alone and bewildered, i made my way to the refrigerator and emptied some cola. It seemed tasteless and reeked of fizz. I gulped it down anyway and made to the shower and let the cold jet sprinkle on me. Vivid accounts of the past, safely etched in memory now came to fore and translated into tears, streaming down my face. I cried. And smiled.

That night as i attempted to sleep, glowing dreams transported me to faraway places, in the mountains, awash with endless hues of green and blue. I tossed about fitfully, shifting through places and time.

And then, i set about to write this post. I needed to write, express in words. This was my way, this is my way. A way of catharsis, a path towards deliverance. A paltry attempt at recounting a splendid existence that can never really be explained.

This is by no means an obituary, that is not how i would want it to be read. That is not how i wrote it. It is a fragmented account, severely limited in expression, of a superhuman life that intimately and absolutely transformed the lives of four people who, i realize, are truly blessed!

We have all, since, returned to our lives, largely out of necessity and partly out of choice. Eventually, time will consign memories to more manageable spaces where recollection would be possible with more cheer than grief.

That is indeed the purpose. To write; to remember and to come to terms with - to remember and celebrate the grace, love and cheer and to come to terms with the grief and pain.

But truth be told, she will always remain what she has always been - iconic.

The Tale of U

I measure about a 176 cms skywards. U, close to about two-thirds of that, with a steely blue, somber and strong build wielded imposing construct.

It was not chance that brought us together, but necessity. Going by the call-signs; spear or spike, U lived up the description, apt and fiercely loyal, protecting me from unpredictable ire, that even some of the most sophisticated forms of electronic intelligence, i use, were unprepared to counter.

One dark, wet, evening, last year, i went looking for purpose; a journey that would eventually take me to U and fulfill my quest for security, comfort and preparedness which my world demanded - a world that was increasingly turning unkind, hostile and unremitting, for most part of time.

U was perfect and much more; a head-turner and lifelike, many an onlooker paused to glance at this outsized figure whose sole duty was to protect the master. Between us, we had forged a camaraderie, a sort of a bond that permitted each to communicate with one another at will, without the burdensome semantics of language.

This past Saturday, all of that came to an abrupt end. Out to attend a meeting, at a hideously unfamiliar part of Mumbai, U and i became separated. A feeling of remorse overwhelmed me as i tasted bile in my mouth, unable to comprehend the happening. Sick and disgusted at my callousness, i became immediately aware of the danger that now surrounded me, vulnerable as i was. My world had changed - forever, it seemed!

As if on cue, the moment i had feared and loathed, came to be.

Ominously dark and sinister clouds, hanging in wait, like sleeper cells of terrorists waiting to perpetuate war, let go of a torrent of deluge that struck me. Alas, there was no mercy! The very mortifying infidel that U had kept me from, now found me an easy picking and attacked with spitefully relentless might.

Vanquished, in pride and spirit, i headed home a forlorn being. But even in trounce are lessons to learn. And, as i returned wiser, i thought of U, my umbrella, the generous being that had unconditionally protected me from an increasingly hostile Mumbai monsoon.

An Update:

On 14 August, U, my beloved umbrella, was returned to me. I can consider being among those privileged few who is now reunited with my 'adored.' It turned out that i had left U at a colleague's residence and returned quite absent minded.

The supreme realization of true love is that you set free the object of your affection and upon its return, if it does ever, know that you were meant to be together. U and i are a fitting example!

Now, the incredulous rains of Mumbai have much to fear as U is back on my side, looking after me, every moment i am out in the open. I feel powerful as ever and sometimes, in pride, mock those hapless clouds and their arsenal of water-drops that connive among themselves to launch a scathing strike, only to be met with a God-like phalanx; to be defeated and condemned to be collected in puddles and pools that will eventually be desiccated - miserably!

All thanks to U, my umbrella! :-)