pensive....

One's life is not made by the number of breaths you take, but the number of moments that take your breath away. :) i strongly believe so. The little moments like tiny drops add up to an ocean of happiness in ones life. there are so many such cherished moments....
And then there are those moments for which you wait all your life and finally it turns out some other way. You are standing there staring at the reality , helpless and speechless ; thats when life teaches you are just a player and nothing more in this game. Its a very humbling experience for one but also a saddening one...
There were a million times i would have imagined it, replayed it and corrected even the minute detail to perfection .... and then in a fraction of a second someone snatches that special moment and shatters the magic. One second you are the king of the world and the next you crash land in the mess around you. :)
At moments like this...i am reminded of one of my favourite poem from my favourite poet ...super senior bachchan. copying the same below....

Jeevan mein ek sitara tha
Maana woh behad pyara tha
Woh doob gaya to doob gaya
Ambar ke aanan ko dekho
Kitne iske tare toote
Kitne iske pyare choote
Par bolo toote taron par
Kab ambar shok manata hai
Jo beet gayi so baat gayi ....

Jeewan mein tha who ek kusum
The us pe nitya nyochawar tum
Wo sookh gaya to sookh gaya
Madhuwan ki chaati ko dekho
Sookhi kitni iski kaliyan
Jo murjhai phir kahan khili
Par bolo sookhe phoolon pe
Kab madhuvan shok manata hai ?
Jo beet gayi so baat gayi...

Jeewan mein madhu ka pyala tha
Tumne tan man de daala tha
Woh toot gaya to toot gaya
Madiralay ka aangan dekho
Kitne pyaale hil jaate hain
Gir mitti mein mil jate hain
Jo girte hain kab uthte hain
Par bolo toote pyalon mein kab madiralay pachtata hai
Jo beet gayi so baat gayi....

Mridu mitti ke hain bane huye
Madhu ghat phoota hi kartein hain
Laghu jeewan leke aaye hain
Pyale toota hi karte hain
Phir bhi madiralay ke andar
Madhu ke ghat madhu ke pyale hain
Jo madakta ke mare hain
Wo madhu loota hi karte hain
Wo kachcha peene wala hai
Jiski mamta ghat pyalon par
Jo sachche madhu se jala hua
Kab rota hai chillata hai?
Jo beet gayi so baat gayi ......

--HARIVANSH RAI BACHCHAN

wet wet wet....

“saagar se utha badal bankar

Badal se gira jal ho kar ke

Phir nehar bana …nadiyan gahari

Tere bhinna prakar…tu ek hi hein”

I woke up today to amma’s call reminding me that it was nearly seven ; had to struggle and dragg me out of the warmth of my blanket. Why can’t every day be a Saturday?

In another forty minutes I was stepped out of the gate for my morning walk to the bus stop in Domlur – on my way to work!

I was welcomed by a cold breeze and a tiny drop that fell from the leaves of the huge Gulmohar tree which covered most of the street. It landed on the tip of my nose, rested a couple of seconds before flowing down to my cheeks! I looked up at the huge tree. We have now celebrated three summers, monsoon and winter together. It looked as gigantic and beautiful as ever. In the full bloom at spring-summer time, I was welcomed daily with a red carpet of its flowers on the road. And now the lady looked equally stunning with the tiny crystals of water dropping down from every leaf, every branch. The slight drizzle had now turned into a small shower.

“It’s a beautiful day” – I sang to myself. The usually dusty and smoke filled air felt clean, fresh. I had to go to a corporate jungle which expected me to be neatly dressed and not dripping wet when I walk in or I would never have taken out my umbrella. Making sure that the speeding cars and bikes don’t soak me wet with the dirty puddle water I walked down the narrow lane which connects my house to the old airport road. The street is usually buzzing busy when I walk past it – but today I could just see people who had taken shelter on small shops on either sides of the road. The government school playground was empty. The kids were playing on the verandah instead. The vegetable sellers daughter was wise enough not to draw a kolam today or may be it had already got washed away. The flower lady had taken leave so I missed the smell of jasmine. Two kids late for school came running. They were enjoying the rain , singing, running barefoot ,without the protection of the umbrella – unlike a sophisticated software engineer. Before I realized it one kid jumped right into the middle of a puddle splashing the water around. The street vendor who stood on the pavement yelled as he rubbed the brown stain from his white dhoti. I smiled to myself and appreciated my common sense to wear brown today!

It’s a photographers delight and a writers motivation – a rainy day.

I love rains. My mallu roots should explain that. The sound of tiny drops of water landing on the trees around and on the roof tile has a rhythm and music of its own. The sight of a moss filled brick wall; to sit on the bay window of my house and watch people walking around holding to their brand new black “poppy kuda”; sipping a hot cup of tea- reading a book–aah I miss Kerala like hell. The rains there are not the small showers that we see here. Once it starts raining it pours and pours for days together nonstop. The first showers fill up the road in front of Thampanur railway station and the dirty knee deep water welcomes anyone who hops off @ Trivandrum central! :D

Its even more enticing to watch the rain pouring down onto the backwaters which are mostly lined with coconut trees on either sides. If you are lucky enough as I am you would have an ancestral house of your mom or dad in a village. J

As much as I love rains, I love greenery too. the villages are greener and cleaner than the main cities. On a typical rainy day there would be a few old fellas discussing “kaalavarsham and idavappathi” in the local tea shop. There would be one or two workers on the paddy fields trying to divert the water from flooding the fields. The only sounds you would hear when you walk down the untarred roads would be of your own footsteps ,crickets and the rain! The rubber estates would add to the darkness created by an already cloudy sky. The cattle would all be inside the thatched shelter and not running around through the estate. It’s all lovely memories , scenes that I have seen in my numerous trips to odanavattom ( my dads home town ) and adoor ( which is moms home town).

My bus arrived 10 minutes late to office, but I felt like just sitting inside and humming a familiar sonu nigam song to the “mungaru male” watching the rainy scenes flow by…..

PS: the poem in the beginning is from my KV diary. I forgot the name of the poem and the poet but he is describing that everything is god’s creation and he resides in all.

Of course! God only can create something so magical and beautiful as the rains!

2 states

thats chetan bhagats latest book. i think his first work has been the best till now. second and third were forgettable. this one might also seem so to many but i liked it. mebbe cause i could relate a lot to the book myself. my own wedding is a knot between the two states fighting over mullaperiyar and a lot of other things :D :D

depressed

I guess its something about the climate that everything looks really dull and irritatingly boring or am I stressed out?

Non committed / Uncommitted

The dictionary meaning says it’s the opposite of “committed” ; i.e. one who is not faithful , is disloyal, casual, uninterested, indifferent, unattached etc ...
Am I any of this? Have been pondering over it for a while now. There may be times when I seem to be unattached or indifferent to others, but am definitely not the rest.

I believe that words have the power to make and break relations, trust; make peace and war. It needs to be carefully used. Sometimes words that slip from the tongue cut through the others heart and create deep injuries. The person who uttered the nonsense would forget it in seconds but the person who receives it will carry it with them for a long long time.

As for me, I am very talkative with friends and relations whom I can talk freely. I am a person with few words when I am with a large crowd, and I am completely silent when there is an argument going on because I try to see both sides. I have my opinion on things, but I hate to push it on others. I understand that they would have their own too and I have no right to question their beliefs and thoughts. It can be discussed but cannot be questioned! Some people might see this as stubbornness – but that’s okay too. J

I have been most dutiful and loyal to all my friends, family…so when a direct accusation of being unfaithful comes that too in a very large audience it creates a distaste and injury that lives long, creates a gap or strain in the elations shared and it takes a while to overcome the shaken trust. I have always made sure I go the extra mile in all my relations; there might have been fights, misunderstandings and a few sad moments, but definitely I am not the one who goes and makes a statement or does things which I know will hurt others. I am very sensitive and respectful towards the emotions of others. I don’t play with it. At the same time, its not welcome that someone questions my identity , my being and walks away with a smile…

Laugh at me, poke fun
I don’t care of none
Call me an idiot
Call me silent
I won’t shake a bit…
But my friend,
The last thing on earth
In all my births
Would be to be –NON COMMITTED!

some sorrows never die

Touched down the Indian soil some three days back. We had to attend a cousins wedding at Chennai. The five hour drive was enough for all the Singapore stories to be shared with parents. When the discussions moved to general gossips and arguments of classical music vs English and how A R Rehman won an Oscar because of his muslim conversion….my mind drifted away – as usual. Suddenly there was an ambulance that overtook us somewhere on the highway. Our car was right behind the ambulance for some time, following it...

It felt like dejavu and I felt uncomfortable. It was bringing back memories that were buried deep inside… kind of opening a Pandora’s box. The sound of the ambulance siren ringing through my ears……..

Everyone has some things in life that they want to forget , some things they wish they had a chance to correct. I have two such things; thoughts about which brings me to tears every time I think about it. It’s not a new thing to admit that I am very emotionally attached to people who are part of my life. And I have some very strong bonding with my cousins , friends ,relatives and of course parents. Two of such very close relations were from my maternal side. One my mom’s eldest sisters husband, another my mom’s youngest sisters husband – my valliachan and chittappan respectively. Both were poles apart in their characters but common points – their love and affection for all and their names. Both were called Gopi in their respective families.

As a child I used to be scared of both; they were both huge, dark, wore glasses, little on the fatter side.

Whenever I think of Gopi valliachan , the picture that comes into my mind is he relaxing on a wooden easy chair at the family home - a “nalukettu “ - surrounded by books, an old radio playing some old Malayalam songs, lot of old photos hanging on the walls around him. The wooden table next to his chair would have a mud jug with water and occasionally he would call out – Omane….vellam eduthu tharu ( asking his wife to get him water). He was the head of my maternal side. He is the one who suggested names for me and Bhagya and our house in TVM. Summer vacations were partly spent collecting ripe juicy ripe mangoes from the estate behind the house, slicing them for him while listening to his stories- mostly his own life experiences. He would ask how we are doing in studies, make us press his legs to ease the pain. He was severely diabetic from the time I remember. So a lot of time was spent in hospitals during his post 60 lifespan. From his fat and tall authoritative figure he had crumbled into a thin skinny figure.

I remember I visited him after my wedding was fixed. The minute I met him he was like so u finally found your guy. “ Is he a tamilian? Good. At least your kids will be intelligent – pattaril pottanmar illa ennanu (means there are no fools among Brahmins) ” . I smiled. He continued - “ but remember to learn to make a good sambar to keep him happy – learn from your mother or valliamma “!! Both of us laughed.

Near to my wedding dates I learned that he was very sick, but was adamant to attend the wedding. In the whole mess of the wedding preparations and the elaborative ceremonies I was totally lost. I don’t even remember whom I met and whom I dint on the day of the wedding. There were just so many people. Shortly after the wedding we flew to Mauritius for our honeymoon and one of the four days there I dreamt about him. I woke and thought it was weird. Why would I dream about him anyways!! That too on my honeymoon.

Only after I reached back Bangalore after a good relaxation at Mauritius did I learn that my beloved valliachan had passed away the day I dreamt about him. I was shocked and couldn’t digest the news. My mom later informed me that he had made it to my wedding. But could not walk and climb up the mandap stairs. So he was there , outside the mandap, waiting in the car to bless me. Since the functions were elaborate and went through the day , after three four hours he had left. I don’t remember anyone telling me he was waiting outside. Maybe I missed hearing it in the state I was in. But to this day I haven’t been able to forgive myself. My poor valliachan travelled 3 hours in his deteriorating health, came to Tvm, waited outside for me to come out so he could see his new son in law – maybe share a few jokes about me….

If only I had one chance to go back and change it….if only I could just see him once more… but I can’t. I will take this regret to my grave…carry this burden on my shoulders for till I too join him one day.

Rewinding a few years back….I was in college.….

Gopi chittappan has only one son- Deepu chetan. So he is very fond of girls children in the family. He absolutely adored both me and Bhagya to the core. The fact that he was working from Tvm and used to stay at my place just brought all of us much more closer. I consider Deepu chetan as my own brother and chittappa as my own father. . I would sometimes listen to him, but not my own dad. Such was the emotional attachment.

Chittappan had a genetic disorder of copper content increasing in his blood regularly and had to be checked once in a while. It ran in his family. He had already lost 2 of his elder brothers to this disease. But from what I know of him, he was a fighter. A gentleman. Even with so many sorrows in life, he was one hell of a jovial person. I remember the first year of my college , after the fresher’s day , some useless senior from mechanical came and proposed to me. I was enacting all this in front of chittappa and daddy over the weekend. Daddy and chittappa were laughing their lungs out. So obviously it was depressing to see him getting admitted to hospital suddenly. He was building a house that time- his huge dream house. He wanted it to be really special and unique and chose each and everything required with passion. He had given me the responsibility of landscape designing. He had a brilliant plan in mind - there would be a small pool in a corner of the garden with a mock waterfall . This water would flow under the glass steps at the entrance of the house and so many things more. We had almost finalized on a draft plan when he was admitted to the hospital. The house warming ceremony was fixed in 2 weeks, so we were hoping he would get discharged soon.

One day evening there was a call from mom, her voice shaky and broken. She just managed to say – he passed away. I was numb. I dint know how to react. Bhagya had started weeping already. I was worried about Deepu chetan and kunjamma – they were my first thoughts. How are they going to handle. My heart felt heavy but I dint cry.

Dad n mom reached home in ten minutes to take us to hospital. Dad just walked into the bedroom and began sobbing uncontrollably. mom was consoling him. It was the second time I saw my dad in tears – the first time was when he lost his own father. Tears started rolling down my cheeks. Slowly emotions started to pour out. His body was being taken to Adoor to be cremated at his dream home – a day before the house warming!! What an irony! We were following the ambulance all the way in our car. The sound of the ambulance siren ringing……

“Dhanya – are u asleep?” – Rajiv was asking in the car and I time travelled back to present. We had almost reached the vellore… I smiled n replied saying I was ok.

I don’t think I have overcome the loss of chittappa. To this day , whenever I go to that house and see his photo hanging on the wall, I feel a lump inside my throat. My eyes fill up with tears. There is no pool and waterfall – just some weeds where it was all planned. I try to tell him that I miss him badly and wish he was around.

He just smiles back at me.

mysore pak(pav) tragedy

I love to cook. That’s cause I love food! :P

So on a lazy Sunday afternoon I decided I should try making some sweets for Diwali. Esp because for Rajiv it was a biggg thing to miss all the sweets of festivals! I remembered I had brought along a recipe book which I bought from Bangalore flower show exhibition. Usually I do my research of recipes on the net, hunt in some two three sites and make sure it’s the right procedure and then go ahead. This time I relied totally completely on the book. It surprised me that all the sweets were just a mixture of some dough, a lot of ghee, stirring and sugar or jiggery mix! It all looked so easy and simple! So I chose one of my favorite sweets – the Mysore Pav / Mysore pak. I bullied Rajiv into buying all the necessary stuff for making it.

So as he settles down on the couch to take rest after the shopping, I start off. I have still not figured out if Besan flour is same as Bengal gram floor. I felt it was confusing to have multiple names for the same thing! There are just so many grams! It looks same to me and my searches on internet gives me same impression. What Rajiv has brought is Besan flour and the recipe book says Bengal gram powder. So I decided to start anyways. It was written to mix some amount of sugar in some amount of water taking care of some ratio. I did that. Stir well till sugar mixture turns into thin continuous thread when poured. This target also was achieved after around 10 minutes. My hands are already starting to ache due to the constant stirring. It was time to add some amount of Besan into this mixture. I religiously studied the ratios, multiplied divided and poured it into the pan. Mixed almost 200gms of ghee into it. Its now turned into some thick yellow paste. The book says to stir till the paste till the ghee starts coming out from the mixture. I stir and stir and stir in simmer. The thick yellow pulp starts to melt. It looks like molten lava that erupts from the volcanoes now. I add a little more ghee, just to ensure the end result is soft and not hard like a stone. Tiny bubbles pop out and burst. I am looking at it wondering when all the ghee will come oozing out, but nothing seems to be happening. By this time the entire flat is filled with the strong smell of ghee.

Rajiv wakes up to this and asks me what I am up to. When Rajiv doesn’t approve something or like it or feels something is wrong, then he has this expression on his face- blank no reaction types. He will just keep saying “Ok Ok”. So when he stood there with that typical reaction of his, starring at the molten yellow pulp that I made, I am sure he thought (enna kodumai Saravanan ithu- meaning YYYY MEEE)!! J

By now I have been stirring this pulp for almost half and hour. So I decided its enough of cooking it. Mebbe I missed seeing the ghee oozing out. So I take it off from the flame and spread it out on a plate. It was written that when the this paste thickens slightly u have to cut it into slices. So I even kept a knife ready to cut it and went and sat down on the couch to rest for sometime. Ten minutes pass, fifteen minutes pass- but the molten lava refuses to solidify. It looks like thick besan halwa to me now. After five hours and no thickening, my intelligent hubby suggests that we put it in fridge so it cools and thickens fast. I agree instantly and put it into the refrigerator. After 2 hours its slightly thickened but not done. It still looks like halwa only.

When I took out to examine, our roomie walks in and he too stares at the plate of semi solidified yellow besan paste and then asks me “kya hein ye?”. He is a marathi, and I could have easily fooled him saying some south Indian dish and asked him to eat it :P . but I stayed honest. Rajiv requested him to be silent and not add to my disappointment. I tasted a small piece and it really tasted like halwa! I should have just left it so and remained quiet but intelligent brain of mine tossed another idea…

I felt I should give one last try to separate the ghee out – so I decided to put into the microwave. That was like a postmortem on an already semi baked – cooled besan-sugar pulp! Ten minutes in microwave I felt that the ghee is finally oozing out. I took it out and it looked almost done. But I felt I could smell some burning smell and could not figure out why. Now the pulp looked like how soya looks once it is cooked. A thick yellow spongy thing. As soon as I sliced the sponge into pieces , I knew y I was getting the burnt smell. Only the top was yellow in color, below it as all burnt. I sat down on the chair to digest what I was looking at and burst into laughing. Rajiv and our roomie came and stared again into the “dish”. There it was lying – a semi spongy half baked half roasted Mysore Pak.

The last comment by our roomie “ tumhein yeh books padhna nahin chahiye..ye recipe shows and recipe books dekhna hi nahin chahiye”. At the other corner , Rajiv was still trying to find if something edible was there in the “mysore pak”.

I called up my mother in law to narrate the incident and share a laugh! :P J