Stranger in my backyard

This is the tale of a stranger- she’s a perfect stranger to me at least. A defiant stranger who dared to trespass into my backyard. She came in the afternoon when the sands were boiling with heat, its muted hues glowing in the two-o-clock sun. She turned hesitantly towards the ocean, after all she didn’t know that two is the most awkward time of the day to come- the beach was completely deserted save cosseted couples strewn all around- in the shadows cast under rusted broken down joy rides, in the shade of fried fish stalls, between the fishing boats- lying down on beds of nets in the narrow gap. But she was no voyeur- as she walked self-consciously towards the shore, the angry stares scorched even more violently than the Madras sun did. But once he reached the shore, all doubts vanished, she forgot about the sun- which seemed to be walloping her with a red-hot whip, she forgot about the drops of sweat fighting low surface tension to cling to her skin, she forgot about the attention she was receiving- why would anyone walk without her shoes on- on a hot afternoon like this. And the shore isn’t exactly the cleanest area of the beach- your feet wont thank you to venture there barefoot, all kinds of debris was delivered to the loving lap of the beach by the persistently unbiased waves-bizarrely chosen refuse, the sea sure had an eccentric streak- banana skins, flower garlands from corpses, stray single pieces footwear (sandals, rubber chappals, a child’s shoe with red lights.) that had deserted unfortunate feet, and of course the ubiquitously present piles of dung- orange reeking masses waiting for waves to carry them away into the sea floor. She picked her way gingerly between these objects, wincing occasionally at the bite of tiny transparent crabs that scuttled up between her toes from small perfectly circular holes. But she was happy, she was perfectly deaf to her thoughts, the only sound that carried through were the waves growling gently in her ears, like a veiled warning- “Don’t get too close. You can’t even swim.”

But she didn’t care; her feet felt cool on the freshly wet sand that hungrily devoured the froth of the ocean to leave behind a lingering trace of foam. Sweat kept appearing and disappearing in a condensation- evaporation game between the sun and the sea- the breeze seemed to swallow those drops immediately after the sun commanded them to ooze out.

She had gone a long distance from Elliot’s, but she didn’t turn back to check, rather she looked forward. The colony of fishermen stood before her, their tsunami-reconstructed apartments- spanking new and tall besides the row of humble huts, their bright coloured fishing boats proudly bearing the names of the donors, the fishing nets hung between palm trees, the narrow gully of waste water that made its way quietly into the sea. She looked around at their leering faces in fear. They were men of the sea- the sea was their perpetual source of survival, their all-consuming sewer, their tolerant sanitation system, and their merciful cemetery. They were dangerous as dangerous as a tempestuous sea could get -these burly men in their lurid lungis fiercely proud of their tiny huts, their precarious lives, their perilous existence.

As she turned around in regret she shot a last look at the stretch that she hadn’t covered,would probably never cover- The Theosophical Society and the dense green foliage within its high walls fighting the infiltration of seaside weeds-their green lotus shaped leaves flapping in protest, the Adyar River mingling into a union with the sea with a joyous serenity that pierced her heart chillingly.

The towering hoardings on the beach seemed far away now like a distant haven of safety she was dying to reach- their smiling images were beckoning her forward – faster, faster, and faster. As she walked back, she smiled fondly at the footprints she’d made on her way forward- her large feet had made yawning cavities in the sand- her stride had been a forward thrusting motion that had the physical impact of a powerful punch- a punch in the sly face of alienation. Her footprints were so beautiful, she stopped to trace their pattern- they looked harmonious- a sinusoidal waveform flipped vertically in a right angle. He turned to gaze at the effect that both sets- from the forward and backward journeys- made together.

She staggered forward in surprise- the sea was obliterating her footprints gently wave after wave; and then a particularly resounding crash later they were gone.

The stranger sank into the sand, oblivious to the water entering her clothes. Her tears made ripples in the sea, ripples that distorted her reflected face. As the water engulfed her lovingly again, she spurned this wet embrace of consolation and walked away- still a stranger.

Harry Potter and the deathly hallows- hollow or what?

After those excruciatingly restless 6 hours were over, I just wanted to sleep, to stop thinking. Potter has always been given me hangovers throughout these 7 odd years- the 5th book was an exception. Every other time, the weight of what I read would sit over my consciousness smugly, haunting my dreams, creating tempests in my thought patterns, dulling my ability to focus, drowning my hopes - well, you get it, every kind of distraction. Of course, I'd be able to shrug it off after a week or so, and after LOTR I desperately wanted to shift loyalties. Tolkien's universe was unfathomably perfect, you can instantly recognize the glint of genius blinding you, it's slickness skidding you while you're on your way to unraveling the mysteries of his smoothly contoured terrain- after all it's got optimum quantities of drama, more depth, and a wider expanse of fantasy that breaches more and more limits as the plot unfolds. Rowling on the other hand made sure that the gates of her world stayed open to anyone willing to whoop with joy within those- mediocrity has its bright side after all. Basically all you need to enjoy Potter is the capacity to suspend disbelief, logic, and to overlook inconsistencies and constant swings in direction. The plot constantly threatens to spin beyond the realm of credulity, but Rowling's always managed to drag it back with a straightforward ease that's always managed to keep the reader in her place- twitching with anticipation.

In the beginning, I used to analyze HP to bits with my friends, but when all our hopes about carefully thought out predictions dissolved, we gave up. No I gave up. I gave up when I realized that Harry had stopped appearing real to me. Like every other HP fan what hooked me (I was never a sucker for fantasy) was the "Hey. It's me." moment that we experienced when we first met Harry (OK- or Ron or Hermione for that matter.) When I stopped seeing myself in him, when I couldn't understand their motivations anymore, it stopped pulling me along its haphazard course.

The seventh book is different. OK it s a typical potboiler. Perfect Ending. "What the heck" sequences that would make any other author blush about the weaknesses in her plot. Fantasy writers can get away with all this. I mean you're supposed to overlook (basic) defects in their craft because of the way they weave their magic carpet stories- spun in such a way we're transported from our reality.

I liked HP 7 in spite of everything because Rowling hasn't betrayed some basic principles of story -telling, a quality that's becoming rare in modern writers -most of them are bent on outdoing each other in writing stuff with the most shock value- under the mask of innovation.

She has stayed true to the spirit of story-telling in the following ways-:

a) make your protagonists lovable- shouldn’t the reader care about your central characters, their problems, understand what s troubling them and why, their dreams, hopes, fears, loves etc.
b) your character has a problem to solve, he might have a few conflicts to sort out. Ultimately, the reader should be persuaded to hang on till all this gets resolved.
c) But then the reader will get bored/stop reading if our hero finds it a little easy. Throw as many obstacles as possible in his path- physically dangerous stuff, emotionally disturbing realizations, mentally destabilizing discoveries, difficult relationships- the works. And when all seems lost, and our hero seems destined for certain doom, hey presto, he pulls out the last ace and triumphs
d) keep repeating all this nicely with appropriate style/structure/dialogue/description/characters/ACTION and you have a well-balanced story that makes you go "Aww. That was a brilliant tale." and then you flip back to the first page and...

While all these classic rules have produced clichés (quite prominent in this series) opposites attract (Ron- Hermione) love can impart strength to perform miracles (Mrs. Weasley's impossible feat- "not my daughter you bitch!" lol.) overlooking opportunity right under you nose. ( "We might have had years together"- Harry and Ginny’s future. yuck!) And those typical "Whatever you've been searching for. It's there. It's always been there. You’ve been ignoring it all the while." epiphanies that occur to Harry whenever he struggles to crack some clues that lead to horcruxes, the perfect double agent (well he s elevated to saint status here. sigh. all the cards come crashing down together in one moment of truth. an explanation that leaves you wondering how she cobbled together this theory without planting any clues in previous books.) then the usual death-despair-revenge-healing-strength to overcome circle, and lessons about appearances and their deceptions. Certain exalted personages can have skeletons have skeletons in their cupboard as well- this doesn’t lessen our respect for them though the illusion of their impregnable perfection lies shattered. Rather, it lessens the foreboding effect of their enigmatic aura - makes the more human and easier to like. And the characters I’d dismissed lightly in the earlier books grow in stature, and some have managed to lessen my dislike for them. And then moral dogmas like loyalty, respect for life, the evils of prejudice, concepts of equality etc, which have been highlighted repeatedly in the series.

I don’t like this absolute soulless evil vs. pure good conflict. Voldemort and his gang are made to look worse than the Taliban (an ideological intolerant tint to his personality and actions?) or Idi Amin. I mean you can’t go all the way to create the archetypal despot. Grey shades work best.

Right there might be a million things that are wrong with this book, but it's kept me engrossed till the end, and I couldn’t have created something as absorbing. So it's been one heck of a journey for this gritty woman, she’s worked quite hard for all the media attention, money, glory she’s earned. It’s difficult to end a story of this kind (Hmm. When Most of you fan base is made of kids) on a satisfactory note, tie up every loose end, complete every character's journey-but she’s done it. Not spectacularly, not stylishly, not reasonably, not admirably, but creating a climax that makes you want to cry and laugh at the same time, say “Oh. How wonderful” and “How lame” together, an ending that makes you go weak in the knees yet leaves you capable of a hollow laugh at its predictability, and corniness.

Well, ok why should I spoil this moment with feeble criticism? I’ve grown up with this book; I’ve read its last installment two days after the crushing realization that I’m 19. This thing is supposed to be a vital part of my childhood- the bouncy excitement of the sleepless nights-before, the reading marathons on the three release-days (5,6,7) that always exasperated my parents, my disillusionment and the distance that crept up, only to be replaced by reassuring comprehension, And the numbed heady silence that follows the last page…

It’s been quite a journey for Harry as well. And quite a story.

End of story.

The Fool- Patrick Henry Pearse.

Since the wise men have not spoken, I speak that am only a fool;
A fool that hath loved his folly,
Yea, more than the wise men their books or their counting houses or their quiet homes,
Or their fame in men's mouths;
A fool that in all his days hath done never a prudent thing,
Never hath counted the cost, nor recked if another reaped
The fruit of his mighty sowing, content to scatter the seed;
A fool that is unrepentant, and that soon at the end of all
Shall laugh in his lonely heart as the ripe ears fall to the reaping-hooks
And the poor are filled that were empty,
Tho' he go hungry.

I have squandered the splendid years that the Lord God gave to my youth
In attempting impossible things, deeming them alone worth the toil.

Was it folly or grace? Not men shall judge me, but God.

I have squandered the splendid years:
Lord, if I had the years I would squander them over again,
Aye, fling them from me !
For this I have heard in my heart, that a man shall scatter, not hoard,
Shall do the deed of to-day, nor take thought of to-morrow's teen,
Shall not bargain or huxter with God ; or was it a jest of Christ's
And is this my sin before men, to have taken Him at His word?

The lawyers have sat in council, the men with the keen, long faces,
And said, `This man is a fool,' and others have said, `He blasphemeth;'
And the wise have pitied the fool that hath striven to give a life
In the world of time and space among the bulks of actual things,
To a dream that was dreamed in the heart, and that only the heart could hold.

O wise men, riddle me this: what if the dream come true?
What if the dream come true? and if millions unborn shall dwell
In the house that I shaped in my heart, the noble house of my thought?
Lord, I have staked my soul, I have staked the lives of my kin
On the truth of Thy dreadful word. Do not remember my failures,
But remember this my faith

And so I speak.
Yea, ere my hot youth pass, I speak to my people and say:
Ye shall be foolish as I; ye shall scatter, not save;
Ye shall venture your all, lest ye lose what is more than all;
Ye shall call for a miracle, taking Christ at His word.
And for this I will answer, O people, answer here and hereafter,
O people that I have loved, shall we not answer together?

Sigh. This was supposed to be a post about what turning 19 means to me. All that occurred to me was one of my favourite poems (by an Irish nationalist.)

The Ultimate Rupture

The shreds of my Torn Canvas have finally disappeared under a deluge of thoughts. Thoughts that have burst out in a torrential stream after being repressed for so long. With the gurgling sounds of this cascade, I can hear the melancholy notes of a song. A song of deliverance for a part of me that has been caged . A song of wistful farewell to a part of my identity that will now sink into eternal obscurity. A song portending a split that has always been on the cards- the cracks aren't visible anymore. The rupture is complete. Between the expectations from a not-so-distant-anymore destiny and the fears of a crushingly unavoidable fate. Between whispered words of faith and harsh tones divining certain failure. Between cold reason and my inner voice. Between buoyant hopes and sunken fears.
Yes. The rupture has happened. The rupture of the rhapsody that is me.
I can finally see the torn out canvas shreds floating serenely on this river-cleansed of its paints. A blank canvas again- but how did it become whole? . In a trance, I lift my brush again. The ghosts of washed-out colours don't leer at me mockingly from the faded canvas.

After all the rupture has happened. The rupture of the rhapsody- that was me.

A Terminated Flight.

The plane gleamed like a white bird with folded wings, poised for flight, but bound to the earth by invisible chains. I waited in the sun, not noticing the sweat leaking hesitantly through every pore of my body. Sweat drops are like secrets, they are held back just to whet your curiosity, to tease, to kindle interest, even though you know they are going to pour out stream by stream anyway. But After five sticky hours of an extremely uncomfortable journey to Delhi, you stop noticing. You stop noticing the air conditioning in the lounge, the coolness of iced tea, the heat of the airline bus that glides through to the waiting plane, and you top noticing the sweat staining your “airport clothes”. Even after the skies were let open to be swept by the winds of liberalization, and the “aam admi” getting to fly and all that, the Indian mindset of dressing formally for airport trips (even to receive people!) was still firmly in place.

A huge white guy, fat, with small eyes and a large nose smiled at me, his double chin wobbling as he did so. “Hot here isn’t it?” His skin was red with the heat and he kept fanning himself with the TOI. I couldn’t place the accent, it seemed American, but I wasn’t sure. He was wearing a loose checked shirt and shorts, quite visible among the sea of full sleeves, ties and the mass of neatly pressed clothes. I surprised myself by smiling back at this stranger; his genial voice and warmth were hard to brush off. “It’ll be more sweaty at Chennai. Have you been there before?” “No…” “It’s an interesting place, you should explore it thoroughly to…. are you going there on business?”

He grinned guiltily as he glanced at his clothes, “Yeah business, I may not look like that, but.” He grinned widely. ‘I’m staying at …” his face scrunched up in effort as he strained to remember, “Fisherman’s cove. I’ve been told it’s very nice there.”

I nodded. “It’s got great sea food, do you like sea food?” He brightened as he heard this, and he leaned forward to hear me better as I continued. “You know, if you really want to experience Madras, you should get into the heat, dust and sweat of the roads and absorb the noises, the smoke, the sights. You should try the buses, sit on crowded beaches, take a walk in the Theosophical society, and eat in cheap local restaurants.” He laughed out loud, “Ah, the rapturous songs of a home bound bird, eh?”

“Yes. It’s my hometown” I replied as we boarded the flight. “I’m going home.”

I didn’t get to see that foreigner again, we were separated by he probably never got out of the air conditioned confines of fishy cove, to do what I’d suggested. As the flight took off, I wondered how he knew I was going home. Was it my palpable enthusiasm about extolling the virtues of my city to a visitor? Was it the excited tone of my voice?

As I settled into my window seat, book (the portrait of a lady) in my hand, I tried not to think of home, it was only 150 minutes away now. But Isabel Archer’s methodically messed up life failed to hold my interest for more than half an hour. As I looked out at the sunset, I asked myself, “What does home mean to me?”

Home was where I could wear my ugly fluorescent pajamas without feeling conscious, where I could eat with my hands without attracting attention, where I could sleep naked and not care, where I could take one hour baths in the winter without freezing, where I could go to the toilet without slippers, where I didn’t need to think twice before opening the wash basin tap, where I could forget that unwashed clothes existed, where I could wash my hair with shikha where I didn’t have to make decisions that ate away into my day at college (when do I wash my clothes? Do I need to wash these clothes? How many more times can I wear this? When will it be warm enough to take a bath?) OK, all this is keeping with the discomforts of a busy frantic demanding college life in a desert. What was home to me after cutting through these layers of superficial comforts? Home was where I could just be.

“Could you close the window please?” the guy next to be snapped his sleepy eyes ha;lf open, irritated by the rays of the sun that peeped in through the window.

Why does life have to be this way? You are looking out of a tiny window, straining hard to find answers for the troubling ruins of your life in the sunsets outside, but the rest of the world in a perennial state of indifferent slumber, and they force your window shut, so that they cant continue sleeping, and you get pulled down into their depths of inertia as well. I pulled down the shutter miserably, and then started eating. The best thing that can be said about airline food is that it takes your mind off other things.

Why do I say madras? The name was changed when I was six or so, and I had had no trouble adapting to it, unlike my parents who inevitably revert to madras. What I feel when these slips happen is what a parent would feel like when he uses a long forgotten nickname of his child by mistake, instead of his proper name. (I remember calling my sister by a string of nonsense syllables, something like “bush-um-bull-um” which was an accompanying tune whenever I pinched her cheeks, I’ll never forget the frosty expression that her face wore when I did it in front of her play mates, and the affectionate memory of her pet names just withered away in a cold death then.) Except that he is no longer a child, and the cold sting of his angry glare will tell you that he doesn’t want to be reminded of the helplessness of his naked childhood. Madras was an embarrassing alter ego, a sickening epithet, and an awkward ghost from the past that brash young Chennai wished to bury.

“Look outside” the excited scream of a child in front made me open the window, and I gasped as I leaned out. This was Chennai, at 16,000 feet away, it looked like a bejeweled bride.

I tried to make sense of the islands of sparkling light and darkness, was it the sea set against the rest of the city? No it couldn’t be. It was just that the part of the city that was throbbing with life shone against the land like diamonds scattered on black velvet. Roads gleamed like rivers of gold, headlights inched across tiny glowing ants, and skyscrapers twinkled like stars in the night. Which part of Madras was this? Sometimes the dots of lights seemed to grow larger, as if we were growing closer to the ground. As I stretched my neck to see better, I realized that this glorious view had been blocked by black clouds floating across the sky. Ironic I thought. Clouds of distance-separation- absence- longing- homesickness and painful alienation had blotted my relationship with my city. Alienation was a cruel word; it made me feel like my love affair with this place was nothing more than a series of one-night stands. How well did I really know Madras? The intimacy that existed seemed to be nothing beyond physical familiarity; it was like making love to a stranger, where your knowledge of the other’s body is the only thing that brings you together. This time, it’ll be different, I vowed to myself. This holiday will be different. I’ll no longer bury my estrangement issues under the cover of my lazy routines at home. I’ll enter the Damodar Gardens and walk around in the shadowy light of its perennial dusk, contemplating the twists of fate that made sure that I never entered the restful canopy of The KFI school. I’ll hitch a boat ride across the Adyar right till the last stretch of the estuary where the theosophical society stood magnificently with its aged dignity intact against the sea, the sand bars, the lagoon and the sea gulls. I’ll get on to the 29C at the smelly terminus and travel all the way to Perambur and back to savour the sights that my favorite bus offered. I’ll take catamaran rides from fishermen and watch the sunrise against the Bay of Bengal. I’ll travel to Mylapore in the first 29C of the day (4 am)and drink the freshest cup of the best filter coffee in the world. Some things don’t change- I consoled myself. Chennai or Madras- there are some treasures that haven’t been ravaged by the relentless march of this ruthless invader- time. I’ll make my peace with my hometown in these timeless realms. I swear I will.

I willed the twinkling dots closer, as if I had a premonition… maybe their smiles held secrets.

I opened my eyes to the wild rocking motion of the plane; it was swaying like a sinking ship in its last desperate moments. A voice, from a seemingly large distance cut through the noises of fear and horror in the cabin. “We are experiencing turbulence, please fasten your seat belts. We will…” the voice died along with the light in the cabin as the plane plunged into the dark depths below.

The diamonds of light got closer and closer, those dots got more fuzzy as they approached, the way tears on a beloved’s cheeks sparkle in a blur when you pull them closer into a hug. Madras was pulling us closer into final fatal embrace.

But this wasn’t death. I have been dead to Madras for a long time. I’d been alive only in a collective dream I had shared with it. Dreams filled with sand bars, mylapore mornings, beach sunrises, Damodar Garden- dreams not yet realized, sights not yet seen, visions not yet attained. And will never be.

No. It wasn’t me who was dying.

A briefly glorious flight that had died mid-trajectory. The wings of a dream had been crushed forever.

Of Mixed Chat and others...

There is a dish in Adyar ananda Bhavan (that’s an eating joint close to my place.) called mixed chat. It’s all-encompassing (hmm, does this word exist?) chat where every possible ingredient on their large table gets tossed in. Little Puris, lemon, mint, coriander, every one of the 11 kinds of colored powder (seasoning, masala whatever.), aloo, bhel, etc are added in good measure. Even by chat standards, it’s a quixotic dish.

Watching TV with my mother is remarkably similar to choking your way through this dish with watery eyes.

“Why can’t you ever let us watch a single channel without interruptions?” is a painful refrain addressed to her. Her beady eyes wouldn’t even narrow and turn in my direction whenever I said that, as her unchallenged reign over the remote control continued. And I’ve always wondered why we’ve never asked her to relinquish her hold over the TV during weekends (only days the TV was switched on. Yes my household doesn’t approve of excessive TV viewing.)

The rubber squeak of our ten-year-old remote as her sharp nails dug into their long suffering buttons always sounded like “ouch.” to me. This is an account of a typical one-hour TV session with mom.

First channel on the list, Sun Tv with its Saturday special movie. Some regular trashy sathyaraj action flick. Ouch. KTV a sister concern. Madhavan’s desperate and absurd attempts at wooing some pretty girl (regular Bombay import.) in JJ. I winced. Mother, mistaking this sound for approval looked at me, “Do you want to continue watching this?” I shook my head, “I’ve seen this movie before. It’s really bad.” Even for a Madhavan admirer, JJ (filled with his ridiculous roadside Romeo antics) was painful to watch, probably his worst movie ever. Ouch. CNN IBN. An over enthusiastic anchor was energetically arguing that West Zone was exercising an unhealthy influence over Indian Cricket. The guilty faces of Sharad pawar and Sunil Gavaskar loomed intimidatingly in the background. “Regional politics. Boring.” Ouch.

Suhasini (Mani Ratnam’s wife by the way) was deep in conversation with a cinematographer about the merits of a certain lighting technique in movies. I sat up, since when did Vijay TV start dwelling upon technical nuances… “and this method was used in Shivaji.” Our faces wrinkled in disgust, when will Madras ever get over the Shivaji hype?

Ouch. Sun Music. A romantic chartbuster was playing behind smses being flashed on the screen at regular intervals. “I love you Jothilakshmi- Loganathan.” “this song is for you my dear- Susheel.” “Appa, where are you?- Abhi” the miscellaneous nature of these inane messages and the sheer incompetence of their anchors made me wonder why the channel provided this service at all.

But the remote didn’t go “ouch.’ perhaps my mum liked the song. When it ended, ouch. DD sports. India-Ireland. Saurav was….

“Wait.” I cried out, but too late. The mere sound of bat on ball would summon my father from the other room to watch the match for the entire night. My mother’s paranoia about cricket channels is justified. Ouch. Raj TV.A Rajnikant movie mad twenty years back, this was Rajni, young and wrinkle-free, lean and fit, before he acquired his “GOD” status in the industry. It was one of the few good movies he’d acted in, early in his career when he was an actor rather than a hero, and his performances would sparkle with spontaneity, energy and depth. No superhuman stunts .No politically loaded dialogues. He was just Anand, a tormented lover who sought to rescue his beloved from the depths she was plunging into.

Both of us liked this movie, the plot might be filmi – young lovers separated by circumstance (read -her father!) reunite after an agonizing hiatus of a few years. But the treatment was really natural, save the action filled climax when our man pursues the woman’s train through thick jungles, rocky terrains and thorns and boulders all on a motorbike! (an allusion (inserted to appear clever, they didn’t succeed if you ask me.) to the way they had met the first time, after he'd won a motor bike race organized by her.)

Variation of typical climaxes where the hero runs along with the train and boards it to get his lady back.

And at the end, the woman falls into his bloodied arms after some hesitation and cries over Anand’s wounds etc. ‘Now watch.” My mother said, “His blood will get smeared on her forehead to signify the end of her widowhood and their new beginning.” Luckily her worst fears didn’t come true, the movie ended without any further melodrama. “Vanakkam”

Ouch. Sathyaraj again. “NOOO ma!”ouch. madhavan playing the violin. Ouch. CNN IBN. “Kaun Banega Rashtrapathi?” “Isnt it obvious?” I snorted. Ouch. Sun news.Ouch.Ouch Ouch. Ouch

My mother’s fingers were now working so fast that the images were appearing and vanishing in a blink, all I could perceive was a blur of speeding visions, each more unsatisfactory than the other. Then the TV powered off in a final ouch, with a relieved whoosh, like an intake of breath from a sprinter at the end of the race.

Maybe we should get DISH TV, or TATA Sky, our TV experiences were being restricted due to Conditional Access. Madras is so apathetic; any other city would have repelled the onset of CAS with the force of their vociferous protests.

And I’ve decided that I like Mixed Chat after all, you get a sprinkling of every single thing- things that wouldn’t taste good if you added more than just a sprinkling.

A bad mother

She sat apart from the rest of the wailing mass, her disheveled face was an interesting portrait of grief. Lines of unbearable misery flowed smoothly with those of maddening guilt in the soft dimness of the room to produce a surrealistic effect.

The shouts of her mother-in-law drifted into her ears meaninglessly “What kind of a mother have you been? My only heirs have been wiped out due to your negligence.” She rushed towards her, the loose strands of grey air flying around her face in frenzied agony. Two more women restrained the old lady as she lunged forward, beating her chest rhythmically like an actress in a street play.

She watched curiously, her detachment was like a seed emerging from the wilted flower of her grief. Her mother-in-law was still screaming hysterically. “Wait. You just wait, you *******”

She spat through the knot of women holding her back. “ I’ll get Selva to marry another woman, who’ll be a better mother. Go back to the gutter you came from.” The words pierced through her like a knife softly cutting through butter without a mark. She saw the tears of rage trace her wrinkled face, running down the lines that striated her craggy face, a river making a path through eroded stone.

She lifted her head slowly to look at her husband; he was huddled in a corner, his face hidden by the mesh of his fingers interlaced over his head. She hadn’t been able to meet his eyes ever since they’d heard the news, when his face had turned ashen and cold all of a sudden, like a fruit falling down into a puddle from a careless pair of hands, only to emerge dull and rotten in spite of the efforts of running water.

Both of them averted their eyes carefully from the two bamboo mats in the center of the room. That’d be too painful. The buzz of whispers swept through the room like a gentle monsoon breeze. Except that the rains had ended, the storm was over; the breeze merely reminded them of what they had lost to its fury. “How can any mother let her children out of sight for more than an hour?’

“Imagine. Her boys went missing at 9 in the morning. She started looking for them only at 11. And their bodies were recovered at midnight.”

The loud piercing sounds of the elegies, the soothing smell of formaldehyde from the corpses (corpses? Her numbed mind registered mild shock- she had already resigned herself to her loss, referring to her sons as corpses. Maybe she was a bad mother after all.) The curses of her mother-in-law, the stuffiness of their one room house in the shantytown of Lakshmipuram all passed through her consciousness like a bad memory being relived.

She was thinking about that deceptively beautiful bright day. The skies were blue, there was a hint of cloud- but even the impending doom of a storm hadn’t been able to dampen their spirits. They were dressed in their best clothes- her husband Selva in his white dhoti and newest shirt, eleven year old Manoj in his kurta-pyjamas bought during Deepavali, seven year old Mahesh in a bright red T shirt and blue jeans. She only had a silk-cotton sari, but with the gratitude that the poor felt for their little blessings, while looking at the very poor, she shrugged it off.

Selva earned enough for them to lead a satisfactory existence -as a driver for Sun TV, and the four of them were as happy as a family could be under the circumstances. They had a home of their own, however small it might be, their kids went to an English medium school, and unlike their impoverished neighbours, and they had a colour TV with a cable connection.

Selva was still the besotted teenager who used to pursue her with a persistence that had won her over. He was still crazy about her, she smiled to herself as he leaned forward “You look great today.”

The newly renovated Marundeeswar temple was more ancient that the multi-coloured paint hurriedly daubed on it stony exteriors revealed. The name of the temple tells the story. Lord Siva is said to have given relief from health problems to the sage Agastya, the Sun God and the Moon God here. Crowds swarmed the temple to devour the Prasad, which supposedly possessed healing powers. Overall, the temple radiated vitality and health.

But the temple told another story for her- after all the story of her marriage and life was strongly connected to this place. She exchanged smiles with Selva. The place held too many memories for them; it was here that they had hurriedly exchanged garlands. And their elopement had caused an explosion of shock in their neighborhood. “Lucky girl” they’d said, “Selva’s quite a catch, he earns well. Good for her.” Of course, she had to face the wrath of his mother for stealing him away and destroying her plans for his future, but her resentment hadn’t been able to sour their love.

And the birth of their rambunctious boys- head strong decisive Manoj and meek easily led Mahesh hadn’t changed anything. The boys, her face wrinkled with annoyance. “Where are those two?” she whispered urgently in Selva’s ears amidst the blare of the wedding music. “They must have gone somewhere to play. We’ll look for them when it’s time for the wedding feast. Don’t bother now.” was his unconcerned reply.

Later when she’d recounted the day’s happenings repeatedly to a variety of people- the police, her friends, they would always ask exasperatedly, “But are you sure you didn’t feel anything? A sense of foreboding? A pang? Mother’s intuition.”

And her reply was always the same painful word. No. Not at all. Maybe she was a bad mother, but then such things only occurred to women in movies, stories and the like, not to her, not to normal people with normal lives. Normal lives- the normalcy of her life had been wiped away, uprooted like a tree in a tempest. The tempest, it had started raining heavily the minute the knot had been tied around the bride’s neck. The bride had blushed at their teasing remarks about the rain- it was a good omen.

Manoj scanned the expanse of the grey water body through the blur of the drizzle. The Thiruvanmiyur tank was an intimidating sight with its crudely carved stone steps, its eerie silence contrasting with the noise of the bustling temple, and the sheer depth of the water. It was rumored that the kumbhabhishekham chariot had been lost forever after it’d gotten submerged in the tank. The water was dull green in colour with the stench of Thiruvanmiyur’s sewage system emanating from it. People hardly visited this tank, except during the days of the temple festival.

Mahesh tiptoed cautiously behind him. Manoj urged him down the steps, now quite slippery due to the rain. “Vaa namma color meen pakkalam.” Come, we can see the coloured fishes in the tank.

Mahesh pointed nervously at the watchman on the steps, but his elder brother, in a show of daring waved his apprehensions away and made his way downward.

“Hey you little ruffians.” The wheezy voice of the old watchman hovered menacingly behind them as they crouched near the surface of the water. The stinging blows of his long wooden stick chased them up the steps. Twice they tried getting around the watchman, twice were they repulsed by his curses and the wave of his stick. Mahesh was teary eyed now, “let’s go back to the wedding. I’m hungry now, and they’d have started serving the feast. And Amma will kill us.” He pleaded.

Manoj sneered cruelly at his doubts, “you can go back to that boring wedding if you like, sissy. I’m definitely going towards the tank, the watchman’s left for tea and I’ve got to seize my chance now.”

As Manoj leaned forward to catch sight of the fishes, his feet started slipping on the slickly wet steps. Splash. Mahesh peered fearfully into the brackish bubbling water that Manoj had disappeared into. Maybe he was seeing the fish close up, not wanting to miss out on this and dreading Manoj’s jibes that would follow if he did, he went in confusedly after him. Splash

Two successive splashes were devoured by the overpowering silence of the tank like a hurried whisper in the night being engulfed in the darkness. The splashes didn’t carry through to the noisy wedding hall. Nobody heard it all. Nobody. Not the tense parents who were so overwrought with anxiety that they stayed put at the temple, wet and feverish without eating anything at all. Not the hassled policemen, annoyed at having to work in the rain, who looked inside dustbins and under drains. Not the announcers in Sun TV who ran the story of the missing boys repeatedly without any success. Not the distraught relatives who hovered around the parents trying to infuse hope and optimism- hope that drained away rapidly with every passing second.

But everyone heard the explosion when the bloated bodies- with the tissues saturated with tank water hurtled to a height of 3 m above the tank and fell in a stinking heap on the steps. Everyone, the whole of Thiruvanmiyur heard the commotion that ensued after the panic-stricken watchman sounded an alert about the bodies.

And everyone heard her hysterical sobs at the sight of her boys, sobs that stemmed from overflowing regret, heart wrenching grief and mind-blowing guilt. She kept asking herself if it was genuine grief rather than guilt and pity at her plight, which directed the tide of her emotions. And the brutal honesty of her answer shocked her conscience. No.

Maybe she was a bad mother after all.