Sri Lanka: Good Monning and All for You!

I was back home… it felt like my heart would drop to my toes if I dared move. The sinking feeling had begun at the airport, as we- my friend and I- sat in the lounge area waiting for our flight back to India. We were still in Sri Lanka, but I was already sorely missing the simple, innocent beauty of the country. My mind still lingered on the beaches of Hikkaduwa and the smell of fresh prawn-and-crab curry. And, my heart… it scattered itself in little pieces, across the expanse of the lands we’d traversed. Like pollen grain that surfs the wind and settles in the unlikeliest places.
The past four days had been… well, perfect.
Surprisingly perfect, in fact. It was my first time travelling with this friend. We weren’t even, what one would call, close friends. She is an ex-colleague of mine and we’d spoken several times about doing a trip to Gokarna. That never happened. Somehow, Sri Lanka did.  And, I wondered if we’d get along. They say that you can only really know a person when you travel with them. But, that worked out wonderfully too. Over a shared love for inane humour, minor gossip and character analysis (assassination?), Rickshaw Reddy and Stroviya Reddy (a.k.a us) bonded and explored Sri Lanka in effortless companionship.
When we landed in Colombo, it was 2.40 am. Two girls in an alien land. My guard was up and working overtime- fuelled by a good dose of sleeplessness. So, when a middle aged airport official offered to help us get a cab that would take us to Kandy- our first stop- I was instantly suspicious. I made up aliases for us both and even went so far as to tell him that we had a bunch of friends waiting for us at the destination… just in case. Naturally, when we reached Kandy safe and sound and said our goodbyes to the kind driver, I felt a little guilty. Why was I unable to trust anyone? Had I really lost ALL hope in mankind?
Hanthana Home Stay, perched cosily on a hill, was our first home in Sri Lanka. And, the owners of the place made me realise even more how beautiful the human heart can really get, with their hospitality. The house itself was divine… our room had high ceilings with wooden rafters and the balcony opened out to the great mountains. It was rather grudgingly we left it, after a fiery breakfast of sticky rice cakes and chilli paste, to head to the famed botanical gardens. We paid a bomb to enter because we were ‘foreigners’, but I’d say it was semi-worth it. The greenery was breathtaking. We passed countless young couples lounging about under the thick canopy of trees as we lost and found our way through awe-inducing palm avenues, orchid enclave and grassy knolls. It was special for me, in particular, because I happened to chance upon the tree that pretty much defines my childhood. The tree that I would worship when I’d go to the park in Calcutta every summer, when I was a kid. I found it is called the Cannon Ball Tree. I took a few flowers from the tree to my nose and absently ticked a minor point off my bucket list. Kandy reminded me a little of Kerala and a little of the Bali in my head (I’ve never been). The giant banana trees with their flappy, floppy elephant-ear-like leaves are what define my idea of Bali. And the skirt-sporting people… they could be my neighbours in Kerala, with their unaffected demeanours and perennial umbrella-using.
Next up- the tooth relic Buddha temple. It was magnificent and beautiful and blah, blah, blah. However, the walk around the lake that frames the temple was great. We ate cream buns, took photographs of flowers, interacted with people, explored the town on foot. We finished off with a stout at The Pub, where we traded travel stories with two girls from Denmark. They wanted to know all about India. I warned them against visiting. I also warned them against not visiting.
The train journey to Hikkaduwa was manufactured in a horror story. The trains in Sri Lanka are like feral horses. They buck, they tremble, they jump, they shriek. (All hail the Indian railways.) And, to make matters worse, we sat in third class even though we had first class tickets. We were misled by a kindly Korean lady who didn’t speak English to save her life, let alone Tamil or Sinhalese. I wondered how she managed to get about in the country. Bless her. Also, damn her. Anyway, we got to Hikkaduwa… with the raging appetite of a pack of wolves. Salvation was sweet… and spicy. We sat by the turquoise beaches of the coastal town enjoying the most bliss-inducing meal of buttered prawns, crab curry and rice, and the sight of surfers paddling to catch ‘the wave’. We had decided in advance to ‘chill and go with the flow’ and did this by walking up and down the town just taking in our colourful surroundings. Multi-hued tuk-tuks, beachy apparel stores, green palms, blue sea. Our room in Vibration Hotel was out of a Mediterranean magic book (white textured walls, stone furniture, bathrooms out of the Flinstones) and, in it, we leisurely got ready for the night to follow. There was always going to be a ‘night to follow’. The Tsunami-ravaged gem doubled as a party town, after all, and in the evenings, it turns into a whimsical, lantern-lit stretch of lively shacks serving scrumptious seafood and ambrosia. The clubs take turns in staying open all night to host ‘the party of the day’ (everyone does business that way… can you imagine such an arrangement in India?) and entertain out-of-towners. At Funky de Bar, which was right opposite our digs, we met a nomadic German paper-cutting artist who was sweet, interesting and fresh out of a five-year-long relationship. He tried to flirt with my friend, who was happily uninterested. (Speaking of which- while Kandy was filled with lovely people, Hikkaduwa was all about roadside Romeos inundating us with ‘hey baby/honey’ and ‘hi, wanna danze?’.) On the bright side, the owner of the place- with whom I’d had a discussion on business, journalism and my nose stud- took a fancy to me and therefore took care of our tab. Yayy. We left when the night had just begun. At around 12 am, that is. When I woke up at 6 am to use the restroom, I could still hear the music from the club. How do people do that?!
In the morning, after a hearty English breakfast, starring Mr Bacon, we headed to a turtle farm where I met a 40-year-old guy who wanted a piece of my butt. He was an old, crippled Olive Ridley. And, for some reason, he kept lunging for my derriere. And then, there were those tiny little turtle that so-cutely played dead when I held them (a defense mechanism against prey, I was told). The story of the farm was sad, as many stories in that region tend to be. The place used to be the owner’s house. One day, he’d gone to work. When he’d come back, the house was gone, along with six members of his family. Taken eternal hostage by the Tsunami. With somber thought playing on our minds, we headed to a moonstone mine. It was supremely unimpressive. But, the cinnamon oil pressing process- that we were shown as a side-show- was amazing!
Then, it was time to head to Colombo! Again, we were thrilled with our guest house in the beach suburb- Mount Lavinia and wasted no time in making our way to the beach. Unfortunately, we were accosted by a plentitude of unsavoury elements whose main profession seemed to be The Objectification of Women. Luckily, we stumbled upon a gem of a place called Shore by O, which afforded us a gorgeous view of the sea, classy live music, good people, and a taste of the best Sri Lankan curry we’ve ever tasted. I salivate even now, thinking about that plate from heaven. There, a rich man- who called himself the unofficial Ambassador of Sri Lanka- chatted with us. He told us that if were to come back five years later, there would be flyovers crisscrossing the space right above the ocean. Umm.
The next day, we hit Colombo city with a vengeance. Dutch Hospital, Odel, Cinnamon Grand, food court, beach, walking… dreading the night. We’d have to leave back to India then. So sad. Heart wrenching. I didn’t want to go back home. Not because I hated home. I love home. I love the people- canine and otherwise- in it. But, something about Sri Lanka had me hooked. Or perhaps it was the wanderer in me who finally found how to use her marvellous wings. I was just so happy being on the move. I felt liberated. The feeling of being far away… incomparable.
So, sitting in the airport lounge, between Rickshaw and Stroviya jokes (they never get old), I made up my mind to indulge my wanderlust, come 2014. I want to go where the wind takes me… so long as the wind doesn’t strip me off my job. I will need the money to plan my subsequent travels. The food- yes, I’d like a lot of that, please. I believe that you can taste the essence of a land merely by biting into a chunk of a native dish. I’d like to aimlessly wander about on shiny tar roads, cobbled streets and dusty bylanes, entering charming little bakeries and leaving them with a full tummy. I will use the yellow brick road as my map, and my dreams as a navigation tool.
I want to NOT visit ‘sightseeing’ spots anymore. I might die of boredom if I entered another Buddha temple… it feels like that’s all I’ve been doing since 2009! I am happy enough to JUST BE. Enjoying the unique fragrance in the air of a new place and taking many long walks. I want to travel and meet and interact with different people. I find that it’s like reading a book… only in live video format. I want to get over my innate lack of trust in humanity. I need to travel as much as I can to design for myself a more wholesome, real and healthier view of the world and its so-often-lovely human cogs. I want to leave my fortress of suspicion and distrust. I want to scale the walls of my many fears (except lizards- they can go to hell). I want to not run away from danger… I want to face it. That said; I want to also be sensible. I don’t want to rub the Italian mafia the wrong way or decide to take on a hungry shark all by myself.
But, for most part… I want to get lost. I want to find myself. I want to be free. 

In the dog house

Lolakutty Vincent is the most benign creature to exist. In fact, my father- Mr Vincent- gives you full permission to refer to all the non-malignant tumors of the world as Lola, henceforth. (“Oh, nothing to worry about. The biopsy results came out… it’s only a Lola. Thanks for asking,” and so on…) She’s the most harmless thing in the world, after all.

Myth!  

A myth that is as fat as her mutt-ly majesty’s bum, and perpetrated by meticulously creased facial wrinkles, large eyes and a tongue that perennially hangs out her mouth, giving her the appearance of an adorable village simpleton. It works for her; she might as well wear an LED display board on her head, that says, “Love me, love me.” Everyone adores dear, overweight Lola. Precious Lola. If you ask me, her tactics are too tacky for my taste. Anyway, I digress.

Two days ago, my father wanted some help. He was undertaking the mammoth task of cutting Lola’s claws, and he needed my help. Because, you know how the sweet stream-roller gets when a clipper dares nudge her aura, let alone cut her claws. Oh, you don’t know? Let me elucidate. My father held the ‘poor pooch’, in the manner of a mother holding her infant against her shoulder. I was to stand behind him, and go for her claws ‘without her knowledge’. Only problem- her flat face was in perfect alignment with my own. I took the clipper to her paw and without much of a struggle, managed to tackle one claw. All this while, the tiny darling didn’t believe a low-life such as I would even dare complete such a daredevil act. But, the deed was done…1/20^th of it, at least. And, all hell broke loose. Lolakutty began throwing the hissy fit from hell- screaming, yelling, kicking… the works. The clipper and I had formed a cruel tag team and bothered her aura more than it could take. We were to leeeeeave, screeeech, sreeeeech, squeal, squeal,*ultrasoooooonic*. All the while, my father urged me to go for the other claws. Nu-uh, I was done. Hell hath no fury, apparently, like a woman whose nails are at peril. Destroy her soul, but not her nails.

I was dismissed. ‘Okay, I’ll cut her claws. Two or three every night, when she is asleep,’ said my dad, resignedly. Resigned not because his canine daughter was such a scheming, manipulative hag. But, because, I, Anusha Mary Vincent, his human daughter, lacked the tact and skill to cut the former’s nails. 

Later that night, the fair maiden communicated to my dad, no doubt through grunts and heavy breathing that she wanted access to my room. She had just come back from her walk (which entailed my father carrying her down the stairs and to ‘her spot’, where she would wee and poo, only to clamber back onto her master’s loving embrace, and be re-transported to her lair.) Naturally, I had to oblige. She came into my room coyly enough, with my father dotingly looking on. (Both daughters getting along and all that nonsense-joy parents derive from such things.) But, the moment the door shut, she calmly placed her huge bum smack on my feet. I must repeat; this little pest had just come back from her wee walk. Which spells two things- residual wee!!!!! She knew how anal I was about such things. I shrieked and ran into the bathroom to wash my feet. When I came back to the room, she was royally perched on my rug, throwing the smuggest looks in my direction, through her cataract-y eyes. Revenge is sweet, they say. Sweet as dog piss.

The furry female had won. I was inextricably and irreversibly thrown in the doghouse. 

My golden valentine

In the hypnotic swirl of his golden glitter I dwell, today. Interrupted only- and rather cruelly- by random reality, which prods my forebrain with multimedia precision. I brush it off with all the absent-minded impatience of a woman who waits for the sinful scarlet hour, when she can rush off to meet her lover. Not entirely an analogy, this. For, in the evening, once the mundane proceedings of the day are wrapped up and discarded in virtual plastic, I will run toward my bittersweet rendezvous with my gilded valentine.

He has always made me feel warm ‘n’ fizzy, cool ‘n’ dizzy, I reminisce with a half-smile, enjoying how the anticipation tickles its way down my back. Only a precursor to the night that will be. His dulcet voice, as on cue, will probe something awake inside me; keep me in a suspended state of blushing. I will be shy at first, look at him, from under eyelashes, and mutter that today, ‘Today, we won’t dance. We’ll keep our hands to ourselves.’ He won’t argue, but, I know, he will begin singing to me. I can discern how it will feel… so distinctly. Like swimming in a sunny sea of gentle little bubbles that will brush against my skin, soothing the bruises of banality. Like the piquant surge one experiences from an activity as simple as biting into a very virgin plum. The head rush, followed by a state of spent calm. The need for more. Eventually, I will give into his liquid embrace; watch as his fingers massage my throat, decorate it with traces of tranquility. My eyes will shut, opening only sporadically to take in his burnished brilliance. The little glands on my tongue will come alive in a karmic chorus, as they are treated to his serous song.

Quite as suddenly, he will effervesce. Pull me up out of my sweet stupor and begin twirling me about in a rush of auric ardour. Emotions will run thick, reaching an apex of feverish froth...

But, now, as my present fights relentlessly to be transformed into the past, all I have to hold on to is the shimmery, aqueous fabric of contemplation.

The golden hour arrives, ultimately. In my apartment, even as I step into my special outfit for the evening, I feel the vapid walls of the everyday closing in on me, inching menacingly toward my being. They bear rusted needles, poisoned with a serum of pure bromide. Visions of the hoi polloi- dolled up in dirty masks and filthy intent, and barking at me in fluent gibberish- begin to cloud my eyes. But, today, they all melt away like cheap paraffin. They form a puddle on the warm, iodine-rich floors of my absolute nonchalance. They sublimate. Gone; just like that.

The world isn’t a blot upon the universe. Not today. Because, in a few minutes, dressed to the nines in my favourite pajamas, I will meet him. My chilled beer. 

The geography of smell

 Calcutta is the smell of a certain fleshy, voluptuous flower that used to carpet the grounds of my favourite park. When I was young, I would fly to the city during my vacations for a few blissful weeks of being pampered, buried under new clothes, fed Gulab Khas mangoes, and taken to the park every day. I don’t remember the park’s name, but, it was somewhere near Elgin Road. Or perhaps it was in Elgin Road? That detail is unimportant… for now. However, I do remember straying away from the other kids in the park to go to the huge, damp, mossy tree that produced the exotic flower. I would squat to pick the white-and-pink beauties up, take them to my nose and be transported to some olfactory Shangri La. I would grudgingly walk towards the area that housed the merry-go-rounds and see-saws only when my aunts herded me away from ‘my spot’. They were worried, no doubt, that I was displaying psychotic, loner tendencies.

The tree was located in the corner of the park and was well-shaded by collective foliage, giving the space a dark, Secret Garden-esque feel. God, how I obsessed over that book. The city, to me, is also the smell of delicacies stewing in mustard-in-all-forms, the aroma of hot tea just as it makes contact with the miniature clay pot it is served in. It is also the not-altogether-disagreeable body odour of an old artist who rushed past me one day, when I was walking to my summer painting class, with my strictly-summer-vacation friend- Chithra.

Chennai is a nose-y bag of strong filter coffee (duh), the Cooum River, salty beach air, fishy Central station. And molaga podi (why on earth is it called gunpowder?).

People remember cities by the friends and family in them. I connect cities with smells. I remember smells before all the awesome/ disgusting memories begin to hit me. In fact, the memories come flooding in only because each of them is associated with a particular smell. Why? I don’t know. But, I reckon I was born with a giant nose for a reason.

Okay, so back to Chennai. Chennai is also the smell of home. It is the smell of confusion, for that same reason, because we went through cooks faster than we went through jeans.

Belgium, ironically, isn’t the smell of Godiva. It will always be the warm whiff of fresh Mc Donald’s French fries. When I was around 15, I did a tour of Europe with my mother. Our Sabena aircraft landed in Antwerp. After checking into the hotel, we decided to take a walk and find some food to eat. We found a Mc Donald’s (the first ever one I entered) at the corner of our street. It was a beautiful grey, chilly evening and a couple was heatedly kissing right by the entrance. It was my first experience with PDA. Once my jaw came back to my face, we entered the eatery and were hit by the delicious smell of anorexic potato fingers in the fryer. So, that’s why Belgium will always be connected to frying tubers, in my head.

Switzerland is the scent of bitter chocolate. But, not the kind that is eaten in cute, super-expensive Interlaken cafes, as tinkling cow bell sounds and fresh air are enjoyed. It was in Jungfraujoch. We'd taken that charming little train to the top, and once there, we were surrounded by a bunch of oldies. I was smugly thinking about how they were all going to pass out due to the sheer altitude and pressure. Until I passed out. I had to be revived with a steaming Styrofoam cup of bitter chocolate. When I came to, I wanted to die. “Robust tennis girl faints”. The shame.  

Scotland is the rustic tang of obese sheep and the woolen heat of a random church service in Glasgow.

Dallas is the redolence of Indian food (not deep fried chicken), courtesy the Indian couple I stayed with for a few days, before I decided to hot-foot it back to India.

Kerala is a nice bouquet of jack fruit, mango pickle, rain, a particular black insect that bit us all one year, and the heaped clothes of my cousins.

Malaysia. Anchovies. Sambal. Yuckose.

Mahabalipuram. That magical land fragranced by the sea and chewy calamari.

Thailand is an interesting olfactory mélange of galangal, overpowering drag-queen make-up and Sambuca (yes, it is an interesting story).

Bangalore. Sigh. The sweet perfume of beer, beer, beer and BACON. Makes sense, since I spent countless lazy hours in my favourite pub there- Plan B- with my partner-in-beer. Bangalore is also the lovely Lavender incense I used to burn in my room, and the kebab-scented living room.

Mumbai. I don’t remember a single smell from that city. Let’s just say my time there wasn’t the happiest. So, maybe that’s why my dear brain erased it all away.

I also associate people with smells at times. A good friend of mine is a walking bag of dust. Another pal is a tube of B&B cream. One of my old schoolmates is a talking banana. Random memories of another friend, who is thankfully no longer in touch, always hit my nose in the manner that a hard cake of dried sweat might. I also have a disturbingly vivid recollection of his ‘breath of death’. It would make me want to evaporate every time he said ‘hello’. Imagine this: let us assume the devil does not bathe or brush. Therefore, his mouth is already tarter-land. One fine day, he decides to lob a few onions into his mouth. But, before he can get into the act of chewing, he is called away on urgent business. When he comes back a few days later, he meets a beautiful woman and says ‘hi’, only to realise the onions have been happily fermenting in the acids of his cavernous cavity all the while. The woman dies a million deaths. I was always sure this friend lied about bathing. Yes, I did ask him if he bathed... of course, I cleverly masked the question. But, he lied. Unless, of course, his body produces sulphuric acid instead of sweat. Andddd, I also wondered how he got all those women... he often spoke about a time when he had enjoyed multiple dalliances. Did he lie? Or, did they all die? Leached to death by the toxic fumes? I am not being mean. You must smell this person to know what I am talking about. You don't even have to go out of your way to meet him. Any time a wind blows in your direction and brings with it a stench, it's probably our little friend exhaling.  

My daddy will always be the whiff of Brut-after-a-nighttime-shower, even though he has since shifted loyalties. Mummy is a God-scent combo of jhaal muri, Nivea cleanser and liquid kumkum. 

I remember good-looking men by the perfume/deodorant they wear, or their natural scent. Intoxicating! 

For some reason, I don’t have any specific smells for any of my best/close friends.

One of my closest childhood friends associates the smell of molaga podi with me. We were at a movie theatre recently, and wafting about amidst aromas of fresh popcorn, hotdogs and other unhealthy foods, was the smell of fresh idli podi. She turned to me and said, “That reminds me of you, Anu! You would bring dosa and molaga podi to school every day, at one point, remember?" I wish I were associated with something else. Even the comforting perfume (yes, I will call it that) of stale beer would do.

Sepia fades to grey

The pitcher of sangria sits in front of her, sweating plump beads, the crisp fruits gently bobbing in the red sea, as she soaks in the charmingly docile sunshine. Taking in the faint notes of the band that manage to escape the inky confines of the pub, vaguely circling the rim of her glass with a forefinger. She is at her usual table; the one she’d fallen in love with instantly, all those months ago. It sits near the pub's window and is shaded by a giant peach lace-and-cloth parasol. The umbrella is unlike the others she sees in the numerous outdoor cafes and pubs in the happy village of Felicity. It reminds her of the delicate, hand-knit parasols genteel Victorian women would hide under, as they took long walks, holding love letters discreetly to their bosoms. The umbrella, the table… among the arsenal of smaller elements that come together to create the plush, downy, dreamy love story that is Felicity.

She comes from a different planet. No, she hadn’t ‘come’ here in the true sense of the word- she had jumped in quite by accident. Lobbed in by the turbulent winds of change and strong arms of destiny. She was looking for answers, and on a train to nowhere, had gotten restless, and jumped off at the next stop, for a cold coffee. It felt like walking right into the embrace of God, she had marvelled. The gentle breeze stroked her cheeks, even as the distinct aroma of the village hugged her tight, willing her to stay.

This was her destination then, she had decided, as she watched the train roll away. Her bag, stuffed with old clothes, was still on the train, but she had everything she really needed on her person.

She had found the ramshackle pub, nestled in the slightest alley, even before she had a home. The peach parasol had caught her eye. But, it was the apparition across the street in the old, sepia-hued house that had sealed the deal. Looking at him was like looking at a constellation of stars in all their shine. Like diving into the gooey, coconut-y centre of a dessert dim sum. Felt like blue flames licking her skin, tickling her, warming her. Felt familiar. She had stood, that day, for a good half hour. Transfixed, as the tall stranger moved in mysterious ways, with amazing grace. She imagined his voice would sound like myrrh-soaked wheat husk.

Even after she had found a cosy little home that afforded her a view of the Big Dipper every night, she made the trek to the pub every evening. It was her religion now. 

Today, like all days, she sits by her sweating sangria, watching the object of her affection. His crown of charcoal black complemented beautifully by sharp, biting features and those eyes. The eyes… they seem almost unmoving, inanimate, and yet abounding with the most exotic liquid expressions. They give his face a rare beauty. Another sip of sangria slides easily down, sending a cloud of smiles and courage upwards to her head. It has been three months, she counts with her fingers absently.

Fate decides to throw his glance her way, just as she catches a familiar tune wafting out, interspersed with the smell of waffles and melting butter. It is like a live wire has touched her shoulder, and she tries to joggle it off. He continues looking, through the glass pane, right at her. Unashamedly, fearlessly at her. The minutes stretch into ticks-tocks of unbearable anticipation. At long last, he walks out, not taking his eyes off her, picking up a bunch of roses from the weather-worn cart parked on the cobblestone path. It came between them for three months; it is a heavenly bridge now. There is something about him, she muses, watching him walk towards her, in slow-motion. He looks like someone who has walked out of an old sepia-toned photograph right into garish reality. He glides easily into the seat opposite hers, not saying a word. His lips remain unmoving, his eyes dance slowly. The roses pass hands. For an hour they only look at each other, memorise each other’s profiles.

His arms, so strong. His chest, so sturdy. His forehead, so majestic. His neck, so graceful, so strong. And, the scar that cut across it cruelly. A scar that stretches from his jaw line to his collar bone. That scar… that scar! Like a bolt of lightning, it extends and pierces her core.  How had she forgotten it? Had she? There could be only one such beautiful blemish in the world. And, she had once traced it with her forefinger every day, wondering if, like it, their life together too would end abruptly. Waves of recognition wash over her. A seed of anger, dormant all these years, germinates now, nourished by the pangs of past pain.  The questions come oozing out of her mouth, thick with emotion and disbelief. She didn’t know she held these questions captive, all these years. Even after her self-prescribed lobotomy. He takes her hand in his, and patiently answers her… one question at a time. Growing one shade paler with every answer. Strangely, every time he loses a shade of sepia, she feels a fresh coat of peace and contentment drape her heart. What? When? How? She is unstoppable. His face takes on a distinct pearly grey glow, in stark contrast to his mane of burnt ebony.

It is nearing midnight and the skies blanket them, curiously watching. All but satisfied, ‘Why?’ she finally whispers. A mixture of relief and sadness clutches at her temples. He smiles, with the shadow of a cringe, and breathes truth and good sense into her ears, blowing them across her conscious, subconscious and super conscious. The clock strikes 12 and his transformation is complete. He stands up, like an actor from a 1920 silent movie, glistening grey and black, pulls out his wallet and retrieves a photograph from their past. One last kiss. As he readies to walk into the black and white photograph, he mouths, ‘Throw it away.’ One last sip of Sangria. One last look at that face. She tosses the photograph into an ancient carved fountain on her way home. Home. Home?

The air is cool. It smells of moving on. Her last night at Felicity.

Tomorrow, she will get on the next train, to her next nowhere, for her next answer.

Clean slate- Part 2

Cajoled by the cool evening air, scented with wild red roses, she walked towards the woods at the back of her Spartan cottage, following the call of native birds and gurgling streams. Like Blindman’s Bluff, she thought, with another small giggle. Giggles, chuckles, smiles… not so long ago, she had absolutely no recollection of how they sounded when they zip-clawed their way up her throat and nasal passage. But, right at that moment, everything seemed so funny. She lifted her hands to the skies, looked up and laughed like she never had. As her unbridled glee echoed through the mist and olive green, earth and flowers in mid-preen, a leaf rustled. Two stems clapped against each other. A ladybird waltzed with a flea, atop a wild boar’s back. Streams rushed down slopes, hastily petting the pebbles and moss along their way. The wet earth released its mineral-laced aroma. All the while, her neighbours, the mountains, patiently packed the gigantic, growing ball of energy with the twine of their own goodwill. They tossed it at her, finally. And, as her laughter finally showed signs of extinguishing, she was jolted by the electricity of the special parcel that surged through her fingertips, through her inner labyrinth.

She had run away from home. She had run away from life. But, she would be fine, she mused, heading to her fragrant, hay-and-honey-suckle stuffed bed of, what she hoped would one day be, eternal sleep. 

Clean slate

She sat by the doorstep, having just finished plaiting her long hair, gazing at the little rivulets that caressed her feet, as they skid past merrily, eager to commune with their older, more stream-lined siblings. But, really only looking resolutely at the tiny vestige blocking a certain turnpike of her memory. It had lost most of its sheen, and now floated about in its grey cell, prison cell, like an old showpiece that had seen more chipper, flapper days. She reached out for the intruder with feigned frustration, and maybe a tinge of a grin. She should have known it was a conduit.

But, she did. And now, she felt herself getting sucked into a vortex of emotional paraphernalia. Faces, houses, laughter, dancing, love, lust, yearning, learning… they whirled about all around her. With every swirl, they seemed to get brighter, juddering off layers of ancient dust, in the manner of a retriever vigorously shaking the water off his mane. Each of them threw little, hand-crafted arrows at the tender tendons that held her resolve firmly in place, even as it stewed patiently, waiting for its steel jacket.

Going back to where she started- square one- wasn’t an option. Her passion fruit tree needed her, as did her herb garden and her precious Muddy, who she’d found in dire waters, as a pup. And, then, there were all those journals, each of which eagerly suckled at the bosom of her soul, nourished by a diet of Indigo ink and the reds, greens, blues and greys of her existence. She could not, would not desert them.

So, she put her feet down firmly and walked through the centrifuging curtains, bruising her nose just a little as she stepped out.

She chuckled silently. Tickled a little by the rivulets that had stopped to watch her and were now nudging the tips of her toes, but for most part, pleased as punch at the thriving health of her resolve. This was her home now and she wouldn’t leave it. Not for years. And when she did depart, she wouldn’t trace her steps back to where she came from.

But, now, all she wanted to do was be in constant awe of the mountains that were her neighbours and whisper stray anecdotes from her life to them, as they pretended to sleep. And, hope they wouldn’t judge her the next morning. To ripen the fruit of her beautiful tree with her personal fertiliser of maternal passion. To ensure precious Muddy didn’t go to pieces in the mixed acids of abandonment. To milk her soul dry and splash the magical discharge across her journals. So that one day, some day, she would be able to sit in solitude in a quiet verandah, somewhere obscure, and understand it better. Understand it in a way she never had when it still clung to her, aided by the adhesive of youth.  

Eye long(itude) for you

Tiny flecks of memory forever ingrained

Dance in the lucid liquid

With swirls of emotion

Like slushy cola sorbet

Melting slowly, like the heart of the beholder

The beholder, who takes on a fresh salmon blush

Growing pliant at the sight of you

She is the loyal pupil to your compelling depth

The iris to your cold obsidian

A slave to your brilliance, when Raman and Rayleigh render you breathtaking in sunlight

The cartographer, she is

Dedicated to tracing the skeins of rust that shoot into the ebony

To drawing maps interspersed with the little shivering, anticipatory peaks of her ECG

Maps that tell the story of a girl who yearned, in crest and trough

In latitude and longitude

And longing

Mornings in Mangalam

It is 4.20 am on a Saturday morning. In exactly two minutes, the younger aunt will start looking at the alarm clock every few seconds, so she can spring out of bed at 4.30 am, sharp. The older aunt makes annoyed ‘tut, tut’ noises, because she’s a late riser- choosing to wake up only at 4.45 am, and she wants her sister to keep it down. Me? I haven’t slept all night, owing to the dreadful anticipation of being rudely woken up at 4.30 am. And, the lumpy pillow that I somehow always end up with. My aunts never ask me to wake up. In as many words, that is.

But, try sleeping in a house in which two elderly women insist on thundering in and out of rooms- starting 4.30 am (every day, government holidays included), slamming and yanking creaking doors, turning off and on bright tube lights. But, decidedly, the worst part is dealing with the inevitable, unholy cacophony of shlokas and devotional songs that come at me, fangs drawn, from a multitude of devices. First, there’s that small, very vile plug-in-and-play contraption. Once switched on, an almost-demonic voice begins disgorging its love for Vishnu in the most terrifying fashion. The instruments accompanying the singing, I am convinced, are plucked from the Indian equivalent of the Addams Family mansion. The seconds are provided by a lady in a garish silk sari, who sits inside the idiot box and sings to the high heavens, contorting her face with yoga flexibility, for added effect. (Till it- thank you God- broke down, the cassette player would take part in the jugal bandhi too.) Third sound- Aunt No 1 singing along to Device No 1. Fourth sound- Aunt No 2 humming along to random song running in her head. The younger aunt used to be a skilled veena player, back in the day. She, however, cannot hold a tune. The older aunt was never a skilled veena player. And, she can hold a tune with even lesser finesse than the former. The overall effect is enough for me to begin the day with murderous thoughts. I love my aunts. But, it is my dearest wish that someone (perhaps my little niece) accidentally break all those darned devises.

My aunts aren’t an anomaly. Mangalam Apartments is infested with people who are in eternal competition with the Sun. ‘We will perform nine million namaskarams in tribute to you, but, ha, catch us rising later than you!’ they seem to imply, with relish.  As if to add to my overall delight at the proceedings, the acoustics of the building are such that one can hear what’s happening in B-Block’s Flat 10, in A-Block’s Flat 6. What does this spell? Cacophony x 100 = Slow Death. 

Age has made me wise, however. When I was younger, I would make dirty faces at my aunts and mumble threats in my sleep-laced voice (which was really a bleat, and therefore impossible to be taken seriously). The older aunt would make faces back at me, sometimes. These days, I usually just resignedly untangle myself from the sheets and get the morning ablutions out of the way, before I dive right into a book, telling myself that I will catch up on some shut eye in the afternoon. But, you know, good luck Anusha. Afternoon is when all the devilish children crawl out of their caves, solely to ring their cycle bells (stolen, I bet, from that Satan church in California), and yell collectively like a crowded slave market.

The irony of life. On a Saturday, a holiday, I should technically be able to wake up whenever I want. Even if it is at 2 pm on a Sunday. But, every Friday evening I make my way to my aunts’ place, of my own volition, knowing fully well that Saturday morning will be a total downer.

Anyway, it is 11 am, now. I am seated at the dining table, growing impatient at my aunts who have exhausted all their energy, storming about in the wee hours, and so, are moving at snail’s pace, settling themselves at the table. The day’s meal comprises all my favorite things in the world. Shallow fried potato. Tomato rasam. Radish sambar. Tomato pachadi. Rice fritters. Hot rice with ghee. Mango pickle.

4.20 am? Hmmm? 

Insomnia

Stupid styptic, soul septic. Peptic devil, evil heretic. Give up hope. Now. Before the moon meanders into sight. Before the stars switch on their shine. Before the sky shrugs off its synthetic blue cloak.

When you look up and all you see is the rolling expanse of blue-black Vaudeville velvet, studded with cheap rhinestones… that is when I wake from my sweet slumber. That is when I slip into my dark robe and get behind the proverbial desk at my cosmic office. I exist to feed off your thoughts. Don’t, for a minute, be flattered- I have little use for your fantasies and the subconscious tripe spewed by your silly mind. But, attached to each of these inane thoughts is a precious molecule; a sleep particle, you may call it. When I suck your fantasies in, a little groove on my tongue catches these tiny, gleaming pearls, and I place them carefully in a chest lined with Chantilly lace, thereon. I make jewellery out of them, when I feel like it. Bracelets, anklets, armlets, earrings, necklaces, brooches, hair adornments. Not because I particularly like how I look with them on. I merely enjoy the feeling of having your peace of mind wrapped around my body.

What do I do with the thoughts that slide down my throat? I wash them down with methanol. And I gargle. The fantasies…the dreams…the hopes- the ones you convinced yourself were so sincere, they all evaporate. All that remains is a sticky coat of black. This, I scrape out with a knife and throw on a ceremonial heap by the back, where, one day, will be born a splendid masterpiece- the Mountain of Dead Dreams.

How do you know I exist? That isn’t even a real question. You know I do. I am that demonic shape you see half-hidden among the clouds, when all the person next to you can see is a sky rabbit. I am the dark shifting shape you see in your peripheral vision. I am the sinking feeling of your eyes being pulled inwards when you look at the clock at 2.40 am, at 2.41 am, at 2.42 am…in one-hour gaps. I am the raging distaste you experience when a plate of food is placed in front of you. I am that cold emptiness you feel in the core of your being. I am blurred vision and black outs. I am the numbness that resides in the tip of your fingers.

Why do I do this? What is my remuneration, you may wonder? Honestly, nothing. But, I have this good friend- Grim Reaper. I owe him a big one. Once upon a time, I was a peasant- unwanted and undesired, in a land of steel gold and sad happiness. He gave me a beautiful piece of jewellery at the most opportune time. A nylon noose, it was. I still remember wearing it and realizing that pleasure was indeed pain. He then came for me and brought me to what I now call home, right next to his prison office.

He likes to keep his prison full. I like to keep him happy. And, so, I feed off your useless thoughts…the ones that coat my throat a sticky black. The pleasure of seeing you one particle poorer of soul, every single day. The dark circles under your eye. Your shrinking frame. Your disdain for the very doctrines of existence. Your vehement hatred of life. Your deep longing for death. Your subsequent- expedited, death. My rewards, they are. Debt repaid. 

Memories of rain

I sauntered down the cement ramp, semi-deaf to the severely unpleasant vehicular orchestra playing out to my left, training my concentration instead on the complex drama unfurling in my head.

Strange things were happening. Darkness begged to be my friend. Light wanted a vacation. In their vehemence, they bumped into each other sideways, to form smoky self-styled Venn diagrams and condensed areas of rainy grey in between.

And, so, it had to begin with a drizzle.

Only, the drizzle was really just overzealous mist. It hung heavily in the air, weighed down by gravity, relenting in miniscule droplets. They dripped onto my hair inconspicuously, forming a talcum halo. I was reminded vaguely of several patches of paradise. I walked in the first paradise for a while, listening intently to the bright green grass beneath my feet rebuke me for intruding on its morning dew bath. The air was redolent of vanilla and something musky. Voices of children wafted about in the fading background, intermingling with the explanatory tones of an older man- an uncle perhaps. I was almost transported to another time… in a car from the past, in which I now sat, listening to my heart beat feverishly. I looked in the rear view mirror to find my lips stained a bright orange and my face red and raw. There was a wild glint in my eye, and my lips curled in a manner that suggested feral moments had been partaken of in the muggy confines. As I turned to my right, I could discern but a waning mass of memory. My arms, however, and my neck, bore scarlet imprints that I could only begin to comprehend. I touched my arm to imbibe a sense of that time, but it wasn’t my arm. An older woman held my hand, and steered me down a wet boulevard. I tried to look up at her face, but she was too tall. I was too short. I had taken my first steps not too many moons ago, and the damp tar road seemed to teem with possibilities. I was being fed stories. Tales from the epics, epic tales. In my head, pictures formed, like a comic strip. A bunch of young Brahmin girls fighting wordlessly for a comb, for the next turn in the bath, for the one extra biscuit. Sisters. My aunts they must’ve been; and my mother. And then, I was on her hips. The hips that, not too many years ago, took part in emergency ejecting me into the world. She was running. It was a drizzly morning in the city I call home. We were racing against time and alongside the bus we desired to board. An angel’s hand, she later said, pulled us in, just when she thought the destination would be forever lost to her. And, so we sat in the bus. I was around 19 years old by then; talking to my peers, as we sped into the verdant wild. I cosied up in a corner, by a window, feeling the wind course through my curls and the mounting drizzle gently attacking my rods and cones. I was happy, I was sad. Teenage pangs did their job well. I had to shut the window before long, because the drizzle had built into a promising rain. It was extremely stifling inside the bus.

So, I stood up and pressed my ears against the large window in my hotel room, which looked like it was sweating. I faintly heard the rain sing to me, in a voice that was layered beneath the more apparent percussion patterns she beat on the glass pane. She began to tell me secrets from lands afar. That she had left her home in Egypt; evaporated from the Nile so cruelly. I listened to her cry of longing. She and I both sang the same song that day. When I could no longer bear the piercing pitch of pain, I moved away. Walked away. Into a dark room where the television took pride of place. On a large bed sat an apparition. Young love set my cheeks on fire, stoking something I identified as desire. The warm specter and I sat in harmony, not saying anything, just relishing the heat that separated us, brought us closer. And there was the heat of the hot chocolate we shared- a delicious contrast to the steely concrete wild which was being hosed down by the Gods. Broken lyrics and unchained melodies looped around us. I shut my eyes, lost to the world, swimming in swelling streams of anticipation. I woke to the sound of thunder and dangerous creaking of branches. I sat huddled under an old oak; a thin stole my only respite from the copious tears of heaven. I was alone in a dark jungle, infested with reptiles. A lizard, the colour of bile, began its ascent up my leg, even as a red snake slithered across my collar bone, turning slowly to look me in the eye, as if to establish its superiority. I thought I had died. They say I fell into a cold, cold coma.

I woke at all because they say I was struck by some kind of sympathetic lightning. I believe I was struck by a mysterious epiphany, if ever there was such a thing as a mysterious epiphany. I looked at my limbs to find them covered in the glittery salts left behind by heaven’s temper tantrum. On closer inspection, I found that the minerals had formed rapidly-absorbed miniscule pictographs on my skin, depicting forefather secrets.

I got on my feet and stretched memory’s moisture away. In the dazzling sunlight, I glittered like a life-sized diamond, as I sauntered down the ramp. Walking towards and into a lifetime more of liquid remembrances and shifting shapes. 

lamb

Love, lamb, ruin

Unholy trinity

How you feed my vanity unto infinity

Ensure the cessation of reason’s impunity

Grab my beating musculature

Squeeze it through a circular maze

Let it float in an uncertain haze

Attention, lamb, apathy

Terrible three

Your words of butter melt down my neck free

Attend to your intent’s every decree

Wrap around my throat so slow

Choke free will

Abandon me in feverish chill

Come, lamb, go

Triplets of desirous paradox

Will you stay till Equinox?

Or, be gone at dusk, like a silver fox?

Step in

Step out

What is this all about?

A mere stakeout? 

Letter to A

Dear A,

I would like to believe that like the lovely, flowing, starkly different notes gushing forth from an antique piano, love too, is not bound by uniformity, despite stemming from one beating muscular source- a tangible-yet-intangible source. And yet, no one object is more bound by clichés than is the object of love. Vision tinted by the calming essence of rosewater, autumnal leaves singing orange melodies, hearts pounding unto arrhythmia, vows of the hallowed ‘forever’, holding hands… is it possible that clichés are the undoing of your generation, a young generation, seeking true love?

One day, and maybe that day has come already, you will decide to set out on that lifelong quest to ‘be in love’. But I advise you to stop wanting to be in love. Instead, set your mind on understanding love, discovering it. There will be questions galore. How do you recognize love? How do you know you’re in love? How much is too much? When such dilemmas are faced, I recommend you resist the temptation of turning to one of those numerous badly-informed rulebooks which liken love to flushed cheeks and a wildly beating heart- if such is the feeling you require, a bout of high fever is what you need. These rules have been written by generations of semantically-blessed, lovelorn fools. And they are lapped up millions of lazy love-seekers who’re too lazy to discover the feeling for themselves. You must dare to be different. Learn your own lessons. Remember, there are no rules in love. If at all you need a rulebook, pen it down yourself, guided by your own experience. And if you feel your rules are nonsensical, tear them up, and carry on with your journey anyway.

You might beg to differ, because at your age you are no doubt highly idealistic, but there might be no such person as ‘the one’. Love is not about you or another person as individuals. It is about your dynamic as a couple, as a working unit. Yes, ‘the spark’ does exist, and you can find it with several people. But after a certain point, it boils down to how much effort you put in. Strive to better yourself as a person. Respect yourself and your partner. Sacrifice might be involved. Fight fiercely but sort things out with just as much passion. Compromise is inevitable, so be open to it. But if your happiness is being compromised too much, have the gumption to get out of the relationship. You will be doing everyone a favour. Be a rebel. Be a little selfish. Be a little selfless. Be practical. Be impractical. Keep with the times. Go retro. Move forward. Take a step back. Be philosophical. Keep it real. Trust implicitly. Be wary.

As is the unfortunate case with your entire generation, you too are matured beyond your age. So, I don’t need to stress on the need to be careful. Experiment all you want, if you must, without compromising on your ingrained morals, because that will kill your spirit one little grain at a time. You were brought up on the basic principle of ‘live and let live’. Never, and I mean never, attempt to destroy another for your needs. Never, ever cheat. Don’t go down the path of debauchery, because that is meant for the crude and sickly. Learn to care, truly care. Make your partner the most important person in your life, but don’t build an altar for him in the centre of your universe. Don’t make him your world, your everything. Have your own life. Don’t ignore your friends; they’re the ones who have your back all the way. Let your family have a say too, but no, theirs need not be the final word.

Love is not without heartbreak. Don’t be afraid of it. You’re human and you’ll get over it soon enough. Yes, people have killed themselves over heartbreak, but they were weak and lived for love. You mustn’t live for love. You must love to live, that’s more important. You were created so you could contribute some measure of beauty to the world, and you must do your bit even if it only requires you to be yourself. Have fun with life, with love. Keep smiling, stay in touch with your inner music and poetry cultivate the habit of laughing heartily. Chocolate helps too.

I can’t put an age to when one must fall in love. It comes down to maturity. I naturally still see you as a baby, and will worry myself sick and nag you till you tire of me. But, when you do find love, the kind of love that you believe is real, cherish it, nurture it, nourish it and most importantly bask in it, until you’ve tanned a content shade of scarlet.

Love,

Me

soul travel

As I drop down to my knees, my dreams rise above me, attempting to force-lift my captured spirit- carefully, letting not my throat graze against the shame-coated dagger of that dreaded, dreadful enemy- Surrender.

At that moment, when my spirit is mid-flight, my searching Soul looks within, into a miasma of past presents, presentable futures and futuristic pastiches. In this diaphanous vapor, quasi-illustrations of my life play out. They coil and recoil, fading down a path paved by a multitude of grand decisions- wise and unwise.

Past the haze of memory and yearning, Soul spots a great pool. One side of this strange lagoon is a bright turquoise blue, and is helmed by the mighty Foolish Hope, who has captured the Spring Sky to be his warrior in waiting. The other side, manned by a muscular Foolish Confidence, is a brilliant yellow, dyed no doubt by the essence of Sun- his trusted servant. The two liquid camps thrash and crash into each other, fighting as they always do. Foolish Hope has the unending sky on his side, but is crippled by the inane knowledge that sky is limit. Foolish Confidence, invigorated by the golden potion brewed by his magnificent servant, shuts his eyes and languorously splays his fingers across the expanse, marking his territory. And then, quite suddenly, he feels something sharp grip his fingertips, and realizes he has not been edging into Foolish Hope’s territory, but, in fact into the hellish, fire-ridden colony ruled by Cruel Reality.

Evaporated thus, by contact and association, the great dry basin now reveals a mass of soft, yielding sand. In it, Beautiful Temptation and Beautiful Deceit have formed a handsome tag team, and are flexing their chiseled muscles and issuing forth buttery smiles, seducing Soul to lie down, take a nap. My tired life essence is only too happy to oblige. But, the moment she touches the talcum totality of the expanse, she is sucked in by a powerful quicksand of Inner Turmoil. When she tries to lunge upwards, her conniving captors only wrap their sinewy arms tighter around her, taking her down.

Soul is convinced she is dead.

However, after a few seconds of sandy suction, she lands with a thud in a kingdom that has plastered all over its walls the rage-filled visage of Emperor Big Trouble. Into a tick-filled prison Soul is thrown, surrounded by Greater Wrongs, White Lies and Not Guilty. Things look up momentarily when the echoes of redemption breathe words of encouragement through the grimy walls. One night, with her three companions, Soul plans a great escape from the dungeon. They use a hammer called Resolve to beat away at the wall. Only the heavens bear witness to how they manage the feat. But they do.

Yet, Lady Freedom proves slinky and unwilling to be won over by mere criminals, one of them who now wields the hammer of Resolve, like a Thor in training.

After days spent in a dangerous forest called Terrible Confusion, they wander, quite by accident, into a peculiar employment agency. To Soul’s surprise, the pristine candidates, dressed in their Monday best, are waiting to be picked by none other than Soul herself. In line, looking eager and smart are virtues like Inner Beauty, Goodwill, Intelligence, Honestly, Temperance and Kindness. They vie. Soul weighs. But, without the employ of Clear Thinking, things are getting nowhere. ‘I want you all!’ Soul cries in anguish, Resolve starting to weigh rather heavily upon her shoulders.

‘Then, you’ll just have to choose me,’ replies the calm voice of Inner God. 

Running from thought

Thoughts swirl; twirl slowly, beautifully, poisonously

Coil prickly thorns of unrealised dreams

Around my throat

They smell of fragrant herbs, taste like unpolluted pain

Feel like the tears that might have been; had they not been sucked internally by the parched soul

Achy reflections chase the mind

Lassoing it with languid, smoky exactitude

In their clutches my essence lies, limp

Straitjacketed in the thick drapes of darkness

Loneliness, once an ally

Now, a folly

A moment of quiet

Is not to be

The mind rages with angst, yearning

Bitterness at the sorry, black pool

In which the spirit writhes like a fly drowning in snake’s venom

Longing for that calm

A dream that drifts farther every day

That dreadful orchestra of thought

Draws my core in, whole; spits it out in ravaged bits

The thick sap of contemplation coats them

A thin layer, for every passing day

Slow imprisonment 

Its amber my spirit will be, one day

Its slave in death