The narrow lane to the Sharada Madhom at Kochi is liberally strewn with withered leaves, the color of bronze. They flutter about in the cold breeze only to settle down resignedly a few moments later. It’s quite late in the evening as I mount the steps to the verandah, stricken by the moss laden brick wall that smells of dampened earth. The spirited flames on a finely lit lamp put up a brave fight against the impish waft that seems to be getting naughtier by the moment. Solemn chants of a long-lost reverie reverberate from somewhere across the somber walls.
A dimly lit corridor with the fading sunlight streaming in, leads to a tiny chamber where my aide leaves me, pointing to a room at the far right. My supple steps nevertheless startle two elderly inmates perched up on twin beds strategically placed on either side of the door towards which I am headed. Amidst their frantic attempts to put up a decent show before their unexpected visitor, I enter the room and walk into her frail arms. ‘It has been so long’, she murmurs, running her thin fingers through my dry hair. At 80, she hasn’t changed much. The charming smile is as brilliant as ever, and the twinkle in her eyes unmistakably youthful. She cajoles me into staying a few hours with her, and firmly states that there were umpteen stories to be told. As I munch on a few biscuits that have been reserved for ‘exceptional’ occasions as these, and flip through an array of fading photographs cautiously placed on my lap, she animatedly talks of a life lived. I playfully tease her on her new hairdo that’s fashionably short; she pretends to ignore me and speaks instead of the mosquito menace in the city as a fierce horde surrounds us all of a sudden and we arm ourselves for the battle. When I tell her that the mango sprout that she had planted long back in our yard had fresh blooms for the first time this year, she clutches my hands in excitement. And reminds me with a chuckle that she had had a tough time with my wetting my bed all the time – ‘You never knew where to pee, did you??!’
I gently remind her that the sun had long set and that a dusk drizzle was on. She accompanies me to the hallway, her fingers intertwined with mine, our feet getting wet in the spray that had splashed across the gleaming red terrazzo. ‘I am incredibly happy that you came, but it’d take me some time to get used to these silent walls again, when you have left. And then I will be sorry that you were here.’ The rueful tenor in her wavering voice is all too evident, and the beaming eyes moist.
Before I walk out into the chilly night, I hug her tight and fervently promise her that I would be back soon for sure.
Perhaps with a few fresh ripe mangoes.
friends fiesta.
" friends fiesta
Wednesday, September 13, 2006 ||
11:22 AM ||
Sometimes I am quite amused at the way I come across someone out here. I mean, people whom I would have never ever met in my professional realms anyway, people who are busy on an altogether different existence plane, people who have very little in common with me, people whom I never knew existed, and probably would never have known either. And yet, it’s strange that we did get to meet up, and have got on like a haystack on fire.
I am at a Festival of Women Directed Films at Thrissur a few years back, and not having much of a great time, when a dear friend introduces me to a hefty fella in his mid 20’s. Apart from the filmi Kurta and a big warm smile on his face that seemed to emanate from somewhere deep within, the brief handshakes or the hastily exchanged mobile numbers, it was meant to be another acquaintance that was to be gone with the summer drizzle. Until I heard something really nice of his film a few months later, and messaged him for the first time to let him know that his efforts were being appreciated. Not long after, I get to see his film myself, and we decide that we do have quite a bit in common to talk about. We haven’t stopped yapping since.
When I used to write to SCREEN long back, I was hoping that Madhuri Dixit would take notice. Honestly. I really believed that she had nothing better to do than read my letters-to-the-editor that dealt with just her. And at last, I did get a mail. Not from Madhuri, but from another fellow admirer of the actress from across B’lore, who had read several of my crazy letters. There was always something to write about, when I was mailing him, though initially it was MD all the way. I still remember the first call on my phone, when the tsunami hit the Kerala coast. I got to meet him in real when I landed at B’lore to attend a Conference, about three years after having come across him on the internet. All the while I was roaming around on his vehicle through the traffic laden B’lore roads, all through the shopping adventures and the ISKCON temple experience and the sumptuous lunch served by his mom, when I was served the most delectable B’lorean dishes ever, I was utterly amazed at the way Madhuri can change your life! ;) :)
I am on another bus trip to B’lore, and this time around, I have got a pleasant chap on my left seat who’s worried out of his wits that it might rain during the night. He’s going back after a week’s vacation and we soon lose ourselves in the film that’s being aired. We doze off peacefully and the next morning he’s one big help when it comes to finding my place in B’lore. He leaves his mobile number with me, just in case. Thank you caring soul, take care. As I leave B’lore four days later, I message him that all went well. A few months are gone and I find a familiar someone calling out my name in my home city as I am being driven nuts by my scooter that would refuse to start. He tells me he’s gonna fly abroad in a couple of days and that he hoped that we would be in touch. We sure have been.
Ladies and Gentlemen, three very dear friends of mine, whom I did not meet the Bollywood way.
:)
Festive Frenzy.
" Festive Frenzy
Sunday, September 03, 2006 ||
8:22 AM ||
It’s a scorching afternoon in the city. Hunger seems to have done strange things to me, and I find myself getting edgy by the moment in the restaurant, as I wait for my order to materialize. He’s about 7. The filthy rag in his tiny hands reeks of a nauseating stench, as he rubs it over and across the table with a fierce vengeance. His darting eyes scamper all over the place, as he tucks in the messy leftovers and plates on to the trolley that’s double his size, and scurry away. I wonder if he knows that its Onam, in two days.
The streets are bustling with activity and she has earned for herself a prominent place on a corner of the sidewalk. She’s about 5. Her grubby hair is all sweaty and grimy. My nephew is all amused when I kneel in front of her, because she just has a few glitter bangles to sell. Five rupees, chetta, – she mumbles, and as I take out my wallet she grins without an after thought. I wonder if she knows that its Onam tomorrow.
Caught in the middle of a murky traffic jam for about an hour, my patience is fast wearing out. The whiff of fresh rose buds fails to soothe my senses. He’s about 9. Standing all by himself amidst a sea of cars, in a soiled brown shirt that strikes up an arresting contrast with the red roses splashed against his chest, the flower-seller paints a poignant picture. He hands over a rose hopefully, and murmurs something incoherently. As the traffic starts moving again, I see him wading his way back to the pavement on the rear view mirror. I wonder if he knows that its Onam in a few hours.
~~~~~~
Happy Onam, rest of the world!
