He is very restless, scampering here and there, watching TV for a minute, then chasing the soft ball and kicking it under the sofa, running into legs and squealing his appreciation as he is picked up and hoisted high above so he can touch the wind chimes.
Very keen and observant, he picks up the faintest rumble of his father’s bike as it enters the narrow lane. He bounds down the length of the living room, all excited at the prospect of playing rough and tumble with his Appa-whom-he-loves-the-most. He hurtles down with the energy of a small meteor; Appa-whom-he-loves-the-most balances the bike with his right foot on the steps that lead into the house.
It’s an old house. The steps are rather high and steep. The little one cannot climb down without assistance, and sometimes when we sit down together on the steps to watch The Mynah, The Crow and The Jackfruit, his tiny feet dangles half-way between the first concrete plane and the next.
As he reaches the very edge, this confident young man, all of two years, takes an unhesitating leap into his father’s outstretched arms. He jumps, without a shadow of doubt in his mind, supremely confident that Appa-whom-he-loves-the-most will catch him and he will come to no harm.
Now, that is what I call absolute trust.
Showing posts with label Nisha. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nisha. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Friday, November 2, 2007
On Poetry
The world can be divided into two absurdly disproportionate portions – those who read poetry and those who don’t. Those who do read poetry are not seen in favourable light by those who don’t; similarly those who cannot bring themselves to suffer through a couple of lines of verse are treated with condescension by those who do. And heaven forbid, if one writes poetry, one is viewed as a sort of nut-case. (Don’t argue with me. I know that for a fact.)
That is why I always maintain that writing poetry is a dangerous pastime; it’s like white water rafting or mountaineering. Those who do not raft or mountaineer just do not get the concept of finding happiness in choking on water or baking in the sun.
As children we are naturally drawn towards nursery rhymes and the pleasant ebb and flow of syllables in conversation. I am yet to come across a child who would not be soothed by even the most unmelodious lullaby sung by his mother. Poetry is just a grown-up version of those lullabies. Sadly, not many are able to partake of the undiluted joy of reading beautiful verses.
Verses enthral and delight, once you acquire a taste for them it’s difficult to let go. Most poetry that stay in the mind are those written the traditional way. With rhyme and meter and scansion. They also paint vivid pictures, they tell you stories; there are some poems after reading which, one does not remain the same. I can give three examples illustrating each of the aforementioned aspects.
Painting pictures – The Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy.
This is a gorgeous poem about a thrush ecstatically belting out ‘a full hearted evensong’ even in a desolate and sombre evening. This is one that has to be read out aloud.
Story – There are plenty in this category. But a beautiful story is that of The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes.
A possible life altering poem is If by Rudyard Kipling.
And if you just want to have fun reading poetry, there are tons of them. My absolute favouritest fun poetry are by Vikram Seth – Beastly Tales from Here and There. Mind candy I tell you. Erm.. Beastly Tales is a book of poetry for children though, but that’s what makes it so fabulous. Vikram Seth is a genius, what else can I say! Link: Frog and the Nightingale.
There are also these brilliant teeny verses by Ogden Nash. Can it get any better than this?
And Cats! How can I forget Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats?! There are even Broadway plays on these Cats.
If reading these ain’t pleasure, I don’t know what is!
That is why I always maintain that writing poetry is a dangerous pastime; it’s like white water rafting or mountaineering. Those who do not raft or mountaineer just do not get the concept of finding happiness in choking on water or baking in the sun.
As children we are naturally drawn towards nursery rhymes and the pleasant ebb and flow of syllables in conversation. I am yet to come across a child who would not be soothed by even the most unmelodious lullaby sung by his mother. Poetry is just a grown-up version of those lullabies. Sadly, not many are able to partake of the undiluted joy of reading beautiful verses.
Verses enthral and delight, once you acquire a taste for them it’s difficult to let go. Most poetry that stay in the mind are those written the traditional way. With rhyme and meter and scansion. They also paint vivid pictures, they tell you stories; there are some poems after reading which, one does not remain the same. I can give three examples illustrating each of the aforementioned aspects.
Painting pictures – The Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy.
This is a gorgeous poem about a thrush ecstatically belting out ‘a full hearted evensong’ even in a desolate and sombre evening. This is one that has to be read out aloud.
Story – There are plenty in this category. But a beautiful story is that of The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes.
A possible life altering poem is If by Rudyard Kipling.
And if you just want to have fun reading poetry, there are tons of them. My absolute favouritest fun poetry are by Vikram Seth – Beastly Tales from Here and There. Mind candy I tell you. Erm.. Beastly Tales is a book of poetry for children though, but that’s what makes it so fabulous. Vikram Seth is a genius, what else can I say! Link: Frog and the Nightingale.
There are also these brilliant teeny verses by Ogden Nash. Can it get any better than this?
And Cats! How can I forget Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats?! There are even Broadway plays on these Cats.
If reading these ain’t pleasure, I don’t know what is!
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Silly Games
Teenage girls have a propensity to attempt an unfolding of the mysteries of their future; often slipping into reveries about that all important person – The Husband – how he is going to be, his eyes, hair, hands, mouth; the males of the species are rather on the fortunate side, they do not burden themselves with such exotic fancies, restricting their flights of fancy to just a three-letter word. Correct me if I am wrong.
We used to amuse ourselves with a silly game the text of which someone had secretly smuggled in; bored 14 year olds trying to while away time in slightly more useful pursuits than listening to the droning monotone of a History teacher. The theme was an all-time favourite – Love, of course. It was simple, more of an amusement than a game, requiring pretty simple arsenal – a pen and paper. It hinged on the basic premise that every human being would be curious about what the object of one’s affection thought about oneself. One had to think of a boy whom one was very fond of and make a series of short strokes on the paper. Three such rows had to be made. Then groups of three were cut off, so in every row there would be either 0, 1 or 2 strokes left. The score of this very interesting exercise was calculated thus: if the first row had 2 strokes left, the second none and the third had 1 stroke, the score would read as 201.
This would then be compared against the Result Sheet. Each score signified something. We had copied those in the last leaf of our notebooks. It read something like this:
000 – I love you.
001 – I am thinking of you.
010 – Don’t waste my time.
011 – I will marry you.
……
222
And of course the results of each one’s ardent enterprise to pry into the mind of that-cute-boy-across-the-road would be greeted by giggles and blushes and howls of laughter. It didn’t matter that every time the scores turned out to be different; of course his thoughts and feelings for you were bound to change over a period of time. We never doubted or questioned the wisdom of our Bible.
It would have been very unwise indeed, if I had attributed this unrelenting thirst to drink the subconscious of another soul, to the precincts of just a bunch of bored schoolgirls. But as I was to find out, the wider world was no different, in fact I discovered further possibilities in this realm.
When I went to the city to do my pre-degree, I had to stay in a hostel. Now, hostel-life is something one must experience in one’s life-time. It’s like no other; there is so much to be learnt from a hostel. Like how to get ragged and rag (I never did), how to have midnight binges with the little potato chips or cornflakes that we had, how to beg, borrow or steal food, most importantly how to put a face to Mr. Right, the ones we all saw as a vague shadow, a misty silhouette in the mind’s eye.
The technique again was very simple. One had to get a small sprig of a wild creeper that grew lush, flowering in profusion over the hostel fence. After dinner, at about 9 o’ clock in the night, we would all quietly go to the fence in search of the perfect sprig; a shock of bright pink flowers, a hint of green and a coiling brown tendril. Once the booty was in one’s hand the person had to keep quiet till the next dawn. She was not supposed to open her mouth; instead she had to concentrate on the face of Prince Charming, pray for him to grace her dreams. With a small bunch of weed in our hands we would walk back quietly, the chatter abruptly cut short, like an old procession of druids who carried sprigs of herbs with them.
The holy weed(ha!) would then be placed beneath the pillow to forcefully attract the image of his divine face in one’s dream that night. And it worked.
But only when we left the hostel did we come to know that this very secret ritual was revealed to us by the hostel warden herself who always complained about the loudness of the girls’ chatter, especially in the night. Oh well!
We used to amuse ourselves with a silly game the text of which someone had secretly smuggled in; bored 14 year olds trying to while away time in slightly more useful pursuits than listening to the droning monotone of a History teacher. The theme was an all-time favourite – Love, of course. It was simple, more of an amusement than a game, requiring pretty simple arsenal – a pen and paper. It hinged on the basic premise that every human being would be curious about what the object of one’s affection thought about oneself. One had to think of a boy whom one was very fond of and make a series of short strokes on the paper. Three such rows had to be made. Then groups of three were cut off, so in every row there would be either 0, 1 or 2 strokes left. The score of this very interesting exercise was calculated thus: if the first row had 2 strokes left, the second none and the third had 1 stroke, the score would read as 201.
This would then be compared against the Result Sheet. Each score signified something. We had copied those in the last leaf of our notebooks. It read something like this:
000 – I love you.
001 – I am thinking of you.
010 – Don’t waste my time.
011 – I will marry you.
……
222
And of course the results of each one’s ardent enterprise to pry into the mind of that-cute-boy-across-the-road would be greeted by giggles and blushes and howls of laughter. It didn’t matter that every time the scores turned out to be different; of course his thoughts and feelings for you were bound to change over a period of time. We never doubted or questioned the wisdom of our Bible.
It would have been very unwise indeed, if I had attributed this unrelenting thirst to drink the subconscious of another soul, to the precincts of just a bunch of bored schoolgirls. But as I was to find out, the wider world was no different, in fact I discovered further possibilities in this realm.
When I went to the city to do my pre-degree, I had to stay in a hostel. Now, hostel-life is something one must experience in one’s life-time. It’s like no other; there is so much to be learnt from a hostel. Like how to get ragged and rag (I never did), how to have midnight binges with the little potato chips or cornflakes that we had, how to beg, borrow or steal food, most importantly how to put a face to Mr. Right, the ones we all saw as a vague shadow, a misty silhouette in the mind’s eye.
The technique again was very simple. One had to get a small sprig of a wild creeper that grew lush, flowering in profusion over the hostel fence. After dinner, at about 9 o’ clock in the night, we would all quietly go to the fence in search of the perfect sprig; a shock of bright pink flowers, a hint of green and a coiling brown tendril. Once the booty was in one’s hand the person had to keep quiet till the next dawn. She was not supposed to open her mouth; instead she had to concentrate on the face of Prince Charming, pray for him to grace her dreams. With a small bunch of weed in our hands we would walk back quietly, the chatter abruptly cut short, like an old procession of druids who carried sprigs of herbs with them.
The holy weed(ha!) would then be placed beneath the pillow to forcefully attract the image of his divine face in one’s dream that night. And it worked.
But only when we left the hostel did we come to know that this very secret ritual was revealed to us by the hostel warden herself who always complained about the loudness of the girls’ chatter, especially in the night. Oh well!
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Nuts About Fruits
Not really.
I mean, I am not that nutty about fruits. Or maybe. About some.
As a child I had the rare privilege of sampling exotic species of fruits. And straight from the trees, that too. Branches heavy-laden with fruits so ripe that the slightest breeze was enough to shake them free and deposit on the ground. Mornings were mostly reserved for scouring the courtyard for guavas and rose-apples. Those that bore tooth-marks of bats and other assorted nocturnal creatures were forbidden, but I’ve had those too anyway.
I had two tiny aunts, who were only about 9 and 12 years older than me, stay over at my place quite frequently. I used to envy their skill in climbing trees, especially that of the younger one. She used to lithely drape her long limbs around the tree and almost float up along trunk. She’d pluck those half-ripe guavas and drop me some, for I’d be patiently waiting beneath the tree, salivating and envying her blasted good luck to be able to gnaw at the crunchy green skin and spit out half chewed bits in a neat shower.
I’ve had my revenge too, by the time my kid brother was of the age when he tottered around the courtyard, waiting beneath trees for benevolent gifts of guavas, I was an expert tree climber. I’ve skinned my knees and half cracked my skull because I’ve fallen from almost all the big trees. I’ve known the sting of quite a few varieties of ants. I’ve observed in close quarters the symbiotic relationship between the white fungi on trees and the ant colony that raises them.
Two varieties of guava. Red and white. Red is lip-smacking good and very sweet. White is crunchy and they grow big. The trees don’t grow beyond a certain size. They are very climbable without being intimidating. One of the trees that used to be my favourite had twin branches extending to either side from the main trunk, so the tree was shaped like a catapult. A fine seating place. The higher one went up the tree the better it was, because the branches caught even the slightest wind and swayed like mad dancers. It was exhilarating to be at the mercy of the wind, all the while trusting reed thin branches to carry one’s weight.
I started young.
I mean, I am not that nutty about fruits. Or maybe. About some.
As a child I had the rare privilege of sampling exotic species of fruits. And straight from the trees, that too. Branches heavy-laden with fruits so ripe that the slightest breeze was enough to shake them free and deposit on the ground. Mornings were mostly reserved for scouring the courtyard for guavas and rose-apples. Those that bore tooth-marks of bats and other assorted nocturnal creatures were forbidden, but I’ve had those too anyway.
I had two tiny aunts, who were only about 9 and 12 years older than me, stay over at my place quite frequently. I used to envy their skill in climbing trees, especially that of the younger one. She used to lithely drape her long limbs around the tree and almost float up along trunk. She’d pluck those half-ripe guavas and drop me some, for I’d be patiently waiting beneath the tree, salivating and envying her blasted good luck to be able to gnaw at the crunchy green skin and spit out half chewed bits in a neat shower.
I’ve had my revenge too, by the time my kid brother was of the age when he tottered around the courtyard, waiting beneath trees for benevolent gifts of guavas, I was an expert tree climber. I’ve skinned my knees and half cracked my skull because I’ve fallen from almost all the big trees. I’ve known the sting of quite a few varieties of ants. I’ve observed in close quarters the symbiotic relationship between the white fungi on trees and the ant colony that raises them.
Two varieties of guava. Red and white. Red is lip-smacking good and very sweet. White is crunchy and they grow big. The trees don’t grow beyond a certain size. They are very climbable without being intimidating. One of the trees that used to be my favourite had twin branches extending to either side from the main trunk, so the tree was shaped like a catapult. A fine seating place. The higher one went up the tree the better it was, because the branches caught even the slightest wind and swayed like mad dancers. It was exhilarating to be at the mercy of the wind, all the while trusting reed thin branches to carry one’s weight.
I started young.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
(My Early) Workspace
I don’t have a cabin. Not yet. But I have a great view from where I sit in the office. I can see the sea! Everyday! Can it get any better?
I sit facing a huge glass window and the view is fabulous. When I look out through the window, beyond the greenery, beyond buildings that get progressively tinier, the sea is a blue ribbon in the horizon. Sometimes, on clear days, I can even see ships sailing by. In the night, the view is better, especially so out in the balcony. Catamarans light up the dark, black sea in pinpricks of light. And when night falls, you are sandwiched by the starry sky above and the dark sea below. It feels as though you are enfolded by two layers of black starry night.
GREAT Place to work!
I sit facing a huge glass window and the view is fabulous. When I look out through the window, beyond the greenery, beyond buildings that get progressively tinier, the sea is a blue ribbon in the horizon. Sometimes, on clear days, I can even see ships sailing by. In the night, the view is better, especially so out in the balcony. Catamarans light up the dark, black sea in pinpricks of light. And when night falls, you are sandwiched by the starry sky above and the dark sea below. It feels as though you are enfolded by two layers of black starry night.
GREAT Place to work!
Sunday, September 16, 2007
The Christian Imp
When they stand together in a neat row, they look like penguins. It’s hard to miss the resemblance. Short, tall, chubby, thin – penguins of all dimensions and contours. The senior ones mostly wear white robes and to break the routine an occasional blue-grey. The junior ones who are yet to glimpse the face of the Lord always wear brown. Very symbolic, if one spares a thought to it. Brown – because the very choice to wear the robe cleanses half your sins, so black pales to brown. Then you climb the rungs to wear snow-white robes that reflect the highly purified state your existence.
Their black habits flutter in the breeze. They have held us all, from childhood, fearfully watched us grow, ruefully shaking their heads as some of us grew horns and an arrow-tipped tail. Early morning catechism classes to help us see and take The True Path to Salvation. Exhortation of lofty ideals, derision of those who dare let their thoughts take the inroads, blatantly ignoring the huge markers sporting The Right Direction, complete abhorrence and scorn for idol-worshippers – children of Satan. Stamping black and white areas demarcating the Pure and the Evil, in impressionable young minds. But I love them. My memories are scattered profusely with penguins of all kinds.
And there was one who taught us English. She later went on to become the Headmistress. Parsimonious with praises, she nonetheless threw a few acknowledgements of a well-written essay or an exam paper our way. Her reticence could also have stemmed from the fact that her star pupils were almost always the most seditious. How else can the restrained hum of rebellion in the Catechism classes be explained?
World Evangelisation is one of the basic tenets of Christianity and most follow it with a zeal that borders on mania. While not one to oppose and scorn this very basic way of life for most Christians and especially all the nuns, one particular Christian Imp dared to raise this question.
“I truly appreciate the Evangelisation of the world or attempts to that end. It is a very lofty ideal to uphold, showing The Right Path to our fellow human beings. However, if a Christian wants to take the True Path that is shown by another religion, say, suppose I want to convert to Hinduism, is there any particular Christian principle that would allow me to do that?”
The question was raised in the earnest. Not a hint of contempt or derision. As genuine as can be. However what followed was something close to Apocalypse at least in the Imp’s world. She was adopted as a challenge – to be shown The True Path – to be worn with righteous disdain on snow-white attires, like a sullied badge.
The first step was a compulsory weekend of ‘Holy Retreat’. Imps might fly! Huh!
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