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

India's National Newspaper

Two things prominently stand out from my childhood – the Nilgiris (the blue mountains of Ooty) and The Hindu. India’s national newspaper, is for me, a memory that transcends time. It is, as it has always been, very timeless.

My association with the paper began while in school, when my father, ever diligent in his efforts to inculcate in me an early practise to begin reading, sought me, every day, to spend a few minutes, to read a small portion of any front-page news-item. I was required to identify five words, which weren’t known to me, and refer his red, bound, ‘Oxford English Dictionary’ to obtain their meanings. For a restless adolescent, this was a problematic affair. And, a particularly uninteresting one.

However, some of the most gripping incidents of childhood and teenage years, I read from The Hindu. The paper, to me, seems synonymous with the breaking-news culture of present-day television news programming (although, looking back, I must say that the quality of reportage was different by galactical proportions and could possibly never be compared with the shite of these days). Many an account, good and bad, have since been associated with their dutiful, unfailing bearer. In many ways, it also was my connection to the world outside, offering an uninterrupted glimpse of people and places I couldn’t readily comprehend.

Slowly, I was enamoured by the fascinating writings of Art Buchwald, Palagummi Sainath, Paul Krugman, Chinmaya Gharekhan, and Bibek Debroy – to mention only a few. Growing up, it didn’t matter, nor was it evident to me, that the paper carried a heavily tilted leftist bias, compounded with attitudes such as pro-Chinese, pro-Sinhalese, pro-Gandhi dynasty, and what not!

My first brush with India’s entirely ‘page 3’ newspaper, (whose name I shall dutifully refuse to pronounce, which also appropriately, and ironically, reflects the depressing times that we live in presently), came about in 1997, when my meandering took me from home, for the very first time. Immensely popular, especially for its bollywood-trivia and intensely salacious style of story-telling, it was voraciously consumed en masse. Blasphemy in colour – or so, I thought!

Suddenly, The Hindu, even with its unrivalled mastery of the English language and celebrated journalistic expression, seemed old-fashioned. Its readers were looked down upon as relics from a pre-historic past. An increasing lot, who had not the slightest inkling of what class-act journalism looked like, pontificated, at length, about how the paper was ‘overrated’.

But, was the paper losing appeal? Or, was it becoming the preserve of a very select group of readers? Was sensation becoming a mass requirement? Evidently, it was not everyone’s newspaper. And, with its limited availability, its circulation and readership, it was no match for its wildly popular tabloid rival. Even though the paper made progress, it lacked a national presence – in a very big way. And, then, the coverage – or the lack of it. While other papers offered sections of news pertinent to a whole range of subjects, oftentimes properly categorized for easy and quick consumption, The Hindu continued its focus on a very limited range of topics.

Could the paper do something to keep up with changing times? Absolutely. Should it change fundamentally in doing so? Absolutely not!

Rock Me Tonite

Anyone who has followed rock music and its progression has most certainly understood, recognized, and celebrated Billy Squier, for his immensely popular music thematic to a more softer yet inherently contrasting loudness, contained together, that has since been classified as the genre known as 'arena rock.'

It has undoubtedly become a cultural inflexion in the evolution of yesteryear music - often standing out as a milestone that signalled the advent of a whole new age.

In the words of historian Gary Donaldson, who comes closest to describing the phenomenon, as being 'big hair, big voices, and really big guitars', this new form resulted in musical reactions like never before and rightly spawned subcultures that changed the social definition of onstage-performance, style, and appearances that now remain immortalized and often revered.

Little wonder that the period of the 80s is still considered the golden era of the new rock movement that gave rise to an army of names who would go on to establish themselves as influential and admired voices earning legendary fame and cult status.

But, I digress.

This is not about the style or genre, neither is it about the metamorphosis that came about so famously. It is more personal, actually. And, that is the recollection of the 1984 super hit, 'Rock me tonite', which, for me, is the 'truest' and the most absolute hallmark of Squier. Apart from of course the wonderful energy and electric tempo that this track so richly demonstrates and evokes, it is also in many ways the transformation of the artist - to embrace the then-emerging phenomenon that was known as techno-pop, the result that can at best be described as the fusion between the output of elegant guitaring and a new wave of electronic sound.

Critics may argue, and rightfully so, that this was a milestone that signalled the end for Squier - thanks in part due to the original video that portrayed, or rather sought to associate, a hideously stereotypical gay-theme with the rampant drug culture that seemed, at the time, most acceptable socially - perhaps to categorize and justify the typification. But, make no mistake, the adverse reception wasn't for the portrayal of a community as much as it was for the heavily laden homoeroticism that instantly put distance between Squier and his audience who almost univocally called out that "he's gay and he's on drugs."

But, I'm no critic. I'd like to think of myself as a music-buff to whom Squier's music, 'Rock me tonite' in particular, has appealed in a very big way. And, one line in the track, expresses the most descriptive of my feelings, when I listen to it, that "you feel the blood poundin' way down inside."

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.

Shine On You Crazy Diamond

Of a nine-part Pink Floyd composition written by Roger Waters, Richard Wright and David Gilmour, this is a tribute to former band member Syd Barrett. He was their lead guitarist and wrote most of their early hits, but was eased out of the band in 1968, due to erratic behavior patterns. Substance abuse played a big role in his mental illness.

Word has it that Barrett, with a completely shaved head and eyebrows, wandered into the studio while the band was recording Wish You Were Here, although Nick Mason has since stated that he is not entirely certain whether "Shine On You Crazy Diamond" was the particular song being recorded when Barrett was in the studio. Because of his drastically changed appearance, the band could not recognize him for some time. When they eventually recognized Barrett, Roger Waters was so distressed he was reduced to tears.

Someone asked to play the song again and Barrett said a second playback wasn't needed when they'd just heard it. Apparently, when "Wish You Were Here" was played, "He stood up and said, 'Right, when do I put my guitar on?'" Wright recalled. "And of course, he didn't have a guitar with him. And we said, 'Sorry, Syd, the guitar's all done.'" When asked what he thought of Wish You Were Here, Barrett said it sounded a "bit old".

The track was first performed on their 1974 French tour, and recorded for their 1975 concept album Wish You Were Here. To me, this track defines Pink Floyd and its signature progressive psychedelic style. It, undoubtedly, is the best produced pieces of music, that nothing could rival, ever!



Footnotes:

With inputs from Wikipedia

Us and Them

In the company of stars, lights in trance,
moments of splendid indulgence,
wind, mountains, streams and the trees,
all part of an assemblage of happy regales,

Without words or expressions to distort,
those visuals that make for delightful import,
vast meadows of sun-spilled warmth,
set about in green prairies of endless charm,

The everlasting allure of an old world,
against the braggadocio of those newfound ones,
we have always known of the winner before, here,
which those plenty retards know not to care,

Time, to some, is a tool of wise immoderation,
spent well on what is worthy of accommodation,
yet, for some others there is no path or way,
caught drifting in a callously downstream sway.

Footnotes:

Inspired by the second single 'Us and them' from the English progressive rock band, Pink Floyd's eighth studio album 'Dark Side of Moon' released in 1973.

Happy Birthday Bill Watterson

-- For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream ~Bill Waterson, Calvin & Hobbes

Footnotes:

Paying tributes to American artist and the author of the comic strip Calvin and Hobbes, William "Bill" Boyd Watterson II who was born on July 5, 1958.

Image Courtesy - Google

19 Years Later

What changes 19 years after? Absolutely nothing or absolutely everything. Well, in some rare instances the former is more so, as i was to find out.

D and i went to school together and have known each other since 1986. We spent until 1994 in school, after which we managed to remain in touch. So, when he told me of his visit to Mumbai, i was determined more than anything to meet him, after what was an epoch that passed by.

Warm as ever, characteristically poised, positively sensitive, clear and deep, i noticed that those traits that defined him as a person of excellence not only remained, but were now accentuated with time and understanding.

Our conversations soon deepened into the need for extricating ourselves from the labyrinth of pointless pursuits that now centralized our lives. Soulful conversations, examples, recollections, a great deal of wisdom and remarkably positive reassurances later, i returned a happier man who had inherited the fortune of sharing a defining dream.

Maybe i don't have the apt word to best describe him. I am not sure i even qualify to do so. But it would be close to use the words evolved, aware and mindful. 

Direction D

D turned 34 a few days ago. I've known him most of my life. Unchanged in demeanour or passion, he remains undaunted in the face of changing times and beliefs. Pleasantly stoic and forever upbeat, he reflects an optimistic disposition, maturely woven with strong measures of a selfless pursuit for achieving happiness, not limited to oneself.

There is a certain character to his pursuit; corded in downright simplicity, embedded with more than definitively clear thoughts and yet as diverse and magical as the enchanting shades off the mirrors of a kaleidoscope.

As he continues his relentless pursuit, Redefining Oblivion wishes him the very best, always and all ways. A chip off the old block, truly. 

A Few Days in Heaven

Mighty, mist covered blue mountains,
rolling ever greens of happiness,

rich blue skies of eternal joy,
soaring trees, oak, pine and others plenty,

maybe, there are so many different worlds, yes,
but there's only one like you, yours of bliss,

the one i was born to, embraced and loved,
cradled in the arms of divine comfort,

with brethren akin, bound by love,
forever and ever, always in hope,

someday i will return to these valleys, these mountains,
these expanses of joy, these moments of elation,

of your soul, spirit and all, i am part of you,
in you i see me, as in me they see you,

there can only be one home for me,
and it will always be in those mighty arms of thee.

Footnotes:

My 'last' few days at home in Ooty early in February

Live On Forever Ry

My first memories of him are that of a warm smile, twinkling eyes of sincerity and a firm handshake which evidently were his trademark style of greeting, every one, every time, and at all times. These memories are not from a very distant past, but, from the backyard of the present.

At 21 you wouldn't expect anyone to be anything but a stirring teenager adept only with the ways a relative, contemporary world. But, at that, he proved all assumptions as they truly are - as assumptions. Extremely passionate about education, with the resolved belief that it was a liberating force, he was working on making his dream project come true - education for the under privileged. It was this yet unborn cause that brought us together, though we found ourselves often delving deep into the pleasures of music, movies, travel and literature.

One would think that a soul like this was destined to live his dream, to deliver the world from tribulation and be celebrated in timelessness - because that is precisely what the world needs, a man of resolve, commitment and belief that he will change the way people live, by hope, vision and effort.

Christmas was two days away and i was invited to have dinner with him - even during which occasion he passionately articulated his dream, his vision, his purpose. That evening, i went home comforted in dreams, his dreams, that strengthened a world of perfection deep within my mind.

But life isn't always the way we think of it! There is always that big fucking sick surprise that springs up unannounced, unbeknownst to us. I wouldn't know then that Ry wouldn't make it for Christmas. A little after mid-week last, of the past year, i was informed that Ry had met with death tragically, bringing two-decades of brilliance to an abrupt end.

Today, as i recall our last conversation, only hours before his departure - his words echo, inspire and encourage me, as if to say that we had met that last hour so that he could pass on the mantle of his dream to me, for it to live on. I gather, he was someone, unlike so many of us, who did not need any credit of achievement to attain his coign of vantage - for who he was, his existence alone did that for him. And that day isn't very far away when tributes, which will culminate into efforts, paid to his memory will show how much the influence of the departed will strengthen and inspire the deeds of the living.

For me, he continues to exist, always and all ways, in my memories and my actions. His simplicity, compassion and forthrightness and more prominently, his efforts to make the world a better place for the less fortunate make him truly what he is - the son of God!

Rest in peace, Ry, my friend, my brother! You fought a tough life and now you are united with your creator. Heaven is a place, now, better, but you have left us poor, forever!

Rest in peace, my friend, my brother. You will live on forever.

Real World Calling

There's a place in my mind,
it once used to be real, making me overjoyed - as one of a kind,

For me there, really, are no worlds beyond,
than the wonders of this heaven, with bliss abound,

Today, i find myself far away and apart,
yet so much longing to be within the magic of its art,

There are no promises, here, of anything whatsoever,
there is only the feeling of magical joy, bliss and content, over and over,

It is a place where time stands still,
as if to demonstrate a supremely divine will,

There's a place in my mind,
it once used to be real, making me overjoyed - as one of a kind,
i call it home - the place where i used to live,
now i call it home - the place where i will be in time to die.

Footnotes:

Image Courtesy - Arun K Selvarangam, from his Flickr stream. With appropriate permission to showcase this work of his.

Image Description - Nilgiris Train, A view from the Ketti Valley, shot on June 9, 2011 in Ooty, using a Canon EOS REBEL T1i.

Less is More

About a month or so before, the Daily Mail and the NY Daily News featured interesting articles about the world's happiest man. Having read them, at the recommendation of a very good friend, i felt it necessary to make a post of the excerpts (verbatim) from either articles, which i have detailed below. During the read, which i thoroughly enjoyed, and was greatly energized about, it wasn't lost on me that the path to true happiness is indeed a process of dematerialization in the personal space, with the message that less is more, truly!

"A French genetic scientist may seem like an unusual person to hold the title - but Matthieu Ricard is the world's happiest man, according to researchers. The 66-year-old turned his back on Parisian intellectual life 40 years ago and moved to India to study Buddhism. He is now a close confidante of the Dalai Lama and respected western scholar of religion.

The son of philosopher Jean-Francois Revel and abstract watercolour painter Yahne Le Toumelin, became something of a celebrity after writing 'The Monk And The Philosopher' with his father. This was a dialogue on the meaning of life. His other works include "Happiness: A Guide to Developing Life's Most Important Skill" and several collections of photographs of the landscape, people and spiritual masters of the Himalayas. Ricard donates all proceeds of his books to 110 humanitarian projects which have built schools for 21,000 children and provide healthcare for 100,000 patients a year.

He addressed the World Economic Forum in Davos at the height of the financial crisis in 2009 to tell gathered heads of state and business leaders it was time to give up greed in favor of "enlightened altruism."

A prominent monk in Kathmandu's Shechen Monastery, Ricard divides his year between isolated meditation, scientific research and accompanying the Dalai Lama as his adviser on trips to French-speaking countries and science conferences. Ricard sees living a good life, and showing compassion, not as a religious edict revealed from on high, but as a practical route to happiness."

It can't get more inspiring than this, can it?

My Immortal Chennai

I am more than just surprised at myself, for the sense of disconnection towards blogville that I have gotten into. It is hard to believe that I could stay away from blogging for so long, and in such dispassionate manner. 

I cannot say if marriage has been the reason, but I will not dwell on it any more than I already have, for being here is more important and enjoyable than being explicatory about the reason for absence. 

Anyhow, after a long pause, which perhaps may not immediately be remedied, I wanted to visit here and make a mention of some events that have, once again, brought about a change into my life. 

I've been calling Chennai home since September of 2010, and it has been a very different category of experience in this hearty Tamilian hinterland. The city, its people, its culture, most certainly intertwined with temples, movies, colours, dosas, music and vermillion, to mention a few that is, have actually been very deeply connected to the process of my growing up and growing well. The beach on the East Coast Road, with its close-to-arid, yet quiet, expanses, has practically been my courtyard for what now seems to be the most memorably happy part of my life. 

Away from the complex orchestration of collective human routines of commute in quest for destination, and supposed purpose, N and I found comfort in the tiny green oasis where little neem trees swathed in the evening breeze and echoed the calls of cuckoos while people residing in vicinity were returning home after a hard day's labour. Dusk's arrival was signalled by a mellow grey overhanging curtain of dim light accompanied the toll of a distant temple bell, with which followed a long chorus of classical hymns belted out from a creaky cassette player that was perhaps as old as its owner. Now, these scenes are forever frozen in my mind, with the ability to be recalled at ease, hopefully, well into the future. 

To some, Chennai is expressive of true warmth draped in 'absolute' conservativeness which cannot be categorized in any relative term of equivalence. It is an amalgamative state of culture, aspirations, values, youth, exuberance, co-existence, and a laid back attitude and yet home to people who fervently live of unending hedonistic delight, in the most positive sense. 

In a sense its core has changed little with time and perhaps will remain benign and irreversible despite the onslaught of the new age revolution seeking to intersperse the old and the new, the modern and the classic, the concept and the conceiver!

On 5th June, I bid a tearful adieu to this remarkable institution of my life that had so sympathetically and patiently taught me love and compassion. The sun had set as I began my journey of departure, and the roads were crammed with automobiles ferrying many a weary traveller back home. A not so dark sky heralded growing clusters of dazzling lights that illuminated surroundings and minds alike. Musky incense spreads through the air, marking a change of time and the beginning of dutiful rituals in reverence of the divine creator. 

The clamour of the evening hardly distracts my thoughts as I leave. Pausing on occasion, I notice a lull, and return to the chatter of people and the noise of the surrounding. A cascade of strong memories envelope me and I realize I am not departing, after all. A great deal of Chennai is within me in the form of experiences and memories and a good part of me remains through the eyes and spirit of all the wonderful people that I will be connected with forever. 

In truth, this is not the end where there are goodbyes and apprehensions of parting, for this is just another beginning, a mere extension of time and place, deeply interconnecting the future with the past, being played out in the present.

Footnotes:

Sometime in the evening of Tuesday, 03 July, 2012, I received an email from a webmaster of Blogadda, a popular Indian blog directory service stating that this post "has been selected as one of the top posts for this week's 'Tangy Tuesday Picks'. We loved reading the post."

I wanted to scribe a few words of gratitude for Team Blogadda for having found this post worthy of such distinction. 

Remembering Jobs

He'd have celebrated his birthday today had he been alive.

Redefining Oblivion remembers the pioneer Steve Jobs and how the landscape of technology changed due to one man. 

Goodbye Whitney Houston

Many nights we prayed, with no proof anyone could hear
In our hearts a hope for a song, we barely understood
Now we are not afraid, although we know there's much to fear
We were moving mountains, long before we knew we could.
There can be miracles When you believe
Though hope is frail, It's hard to kill

Redefining Oblivion pays deep homage to the evergreen Queen of Pop Whitney Houston who passed away on Saturday. Her voice enthralled millions worldwide and I am "grateful for the GIFT of her."

Footnotes:

Lyrics from "When You Believe" by Mariah Carey and Whitney Houston. The song was written and composed by Stephen Schwartz for the 1998 DreamWorks animated feature The Prince of Egypt. 

"When You Believe" was awarded the Academy Award for Best Original Song at the 71st annual ceremony on March 21, 1999.