Unearthing the Precious

Of late, I had been taking many trips down the memory lane. They were exhilarating and meaningful. Memories of growing up – amidst chaos, complex situations and unbelievable diversity- are still vivid and etched so deep in my memory.

 It is amazing how we can remember details of an event, when we focus recollecting it. In one of those journeys, I resurrected a precious piece of paper, which I had un-earthed a few years back…

Syam (alias Syam Kumar B.G- names were said with full initials, way back in 1983 yes!) was my first best friend. We were together always for any cultural (or non cultural) events. Group songs, solo songs, recitation, drama … you name it, we went together. Also, we had a common woe (at least for me)-  an elder sister, who was strict with our studies and marks) - The first question my sister threw at me, once an answer sheet was presented was “How much did Syam get.”  He used to say, he was grilled the same way (Our sisters became our best friends in life later).

I used to love standing next to Syam for no other reason than his small stature. I felt much taller than him, which gave me immeasurable satisfaction of having outgrown our age!   

This was in 1983, which means exactly 29 years ago. That makes me sound pretty old, but not old enough to let a precious memory slip. I was finishing my lower primary (4^th standard) in Chinmaya Vidyalaya School in Vazhuthacaud, Trivandrum. Time had come for friends to part as the school was not to receive approval for conducting higher grades. 

Thus came the time to part.  Syam gave me a note to say good bye. I was so touched. Did not know what exactly it meant to say good bye at the age of 9 or 10. It just meant no playing together, no ‘helping hands’ (a game where one had to run for help and hold hands with another in order  not to get out of the game), no climbing up the stairs and sliding down (sometimes it scraped the buttocks), no singing together etc… 

Little did I know, life was to reveal itself as one long drawn story of good byes of varying intensities…

I kept that note along with my collection of stones of different colors and texture. Those were my treasures and I used to think they were really worth millions. That was the hobby those days, to collect stones from broken bangles, chains etc.  This was a secret hobby, which went public only when I thought I was extraordinarily rich and that I should proclaim my loot to the outside world!  They were kept in the lower rack of my wall cupboard, which had to be protected against white ants during rainy days.

I still remember Syam wishing me good bye and walking back. The pain of my first parting with a bosom pal was felt that day, in which ever depth a child’s mind could travel. 

Fortunately for us, the school got the approval to continue with the higher grades. So we were back again, till the 7^th standard, and remained best of friends, still going for cultural events and bossed around by sisters ( which progressively increased with higher grades-)

We left  Chinmaya Vidyalaya  for High School. A group of us, left our primary school with fond memories, for different pastures.

But this note remained. Forgotten too, after many years.

A few years back, while clearing up my home and my old loots, I stumbled upon this note – which opened up a whole new memory chip right in front of my eyes… I went back in time, as if in a trance… remembered every detail of my schooling in Chinmaya – starting with my kindergarten… the day I came off my stammer and ran to my sister in the evening with such sense of pride after having pronounced ‘R’ properly...  She was elated and hugged and kissed me. The little brat had finally pronounced ‘R’ properly. It was always close to the voiceless dental fricative “th…”  Many, many more fond memories flashed through my mind’s eyes…

I took the note with me to Colombo to laminate. It had stayed in my wallet for about 3 years. It was torn, but yet, was clear. The memory of that day even clearer… so here it is… Unearthing the Precious.

I now know exactly how Tagore’s Kabuliwala had felt… carrying that torn piece of paper with him…I have cried reading that story a few years back. I still may. 

 I got in touch with Syam and told him about the discovery and resurrection of an antique piece of a memory. He was flabbergasted to hear that I still have a note that he wrote 29 years ago. He said, his son is in fourth standard now, exactly the same age when he had given this note to me.

 Time, sure had been on its wings… immaculately.

But We Still Fight....

Third time in 18 years, got a chance to meet and closely engage with a few Pakistanis.. This time it was in Goa. A small group of us, a few Sri Lankans, a few Pakistanis and yours truly hired a taxi for the beach. It was a long drive.

I met  Pakistani friends the first time, way back in 1994. In late teens and brimming with nationalism (mostly when it came to cricket!), I had, what I would call a defining moment in life, when I first met them. It was in Japan. South Asia Youth Exchange Program.  A couple of people were speaking in Hindi;  I turned around. Later realized that it was Urdu, they were from Pakistan, and also had come for the same Youth Exchange Program. The next two weeks saw me ‘growing up’ with a whole new world open to me, which I started seeing through my own eyes. That world was distinct. It still is. It is largely free from parochialism; it is built by people whom I have met, spoken, ate with and have had a coffee with and laughed about basically anything.

Those Pakistani friends went out of touch, but what I felt about them stayed live.

In Goa I re-lived what I felt in 1994, even more precisely. As an adult. A woman,  after having rowed the boat of life; its ups and downs. This time, what struck me most was their sense of humour… sometimes bordering on cynicism, just like any free thinking Indian’s, on social issues. That long drive was spent on ‘shayaris,’  talks on Sufi music and literature and what not. What took me mostly by surprise was ‘semya’ (payasam in Kerala) is called the same in Pakistan! For lunch it was served for us in Goa, and those from Pakistan loved the Semya! Apparently it is a must-have sweet in their Eid Festival. Phew!

It is the same people. Same language. Shared history. Culture. Literature. Could not help but contemplate why do we fight? What for? When people become institutions why do we cease to think as people?

RANDOM

So much has changed. Even the look of the blogspot. The dot com (s) change so fast, even if nothing else does.

I have earned the reputation, in own conscience, as a perfect  procrastinator. This is especially when it comes to blogging. This is the time I am reminded of an earlier post of feverishly wishing for longer days; and nights; months; years.


So it is all about change. And having to adapt and move on. A dear friend gifted me with a book. It is the story of a river. I have only read the preface. But yes the imagery was so clear. Life of a river. Realise mine had been one; as is every one else's. The river has its turns and bends; and sometimes even needs to conform.  But no stagnation, except drying up for want of its life giving water. (Wonder 'conform' is the correct word. May be not).

When a lot around one changes, it is hard to keep pace. That happens to be my  continuing epic. Had tried  writing in a note book. I realised, the most guarded thoughts have a way of finding their place in there. So much nice and intimate to see the handwriting. The smudges... the spaces... long pauses.


A lot of faces have changed around me. Many have left. Only the moments I spent with them remain. Distance is what connects me now with feelings. Relationships;  of course sustaining them. It seems hard at times. Yet... the river is flowing...

You speak out, but it is own echo that reverberates. You turn , it is own shadow that reflects...It is a vast space.

More later. For the notebook. And for the blog.

Cheers!

Our share

Your share in this love is not fair
Because I am so far and distant

Complete with Nothing

I wished for a corner

You gave me a world

With its innate intricacies; yet colourful.

I wished for a touch,

You gave me a moment’s infinite joy

Inexplicable; yet so silent.

You disappeared just as a fleeting thought.

Yes, fleeting; wild and accurate.

In your thoughts that I saw each morning

And slept off in the darkest hours.

But I know, you are yet, but a thought.

Not near. Not far. Somewhere meandering... 

With little I feel fulfilled

With nothing I feel complete

But I know, you are yet, but a thought...

Splashing colours- latest hobby!

I Asked God

I wondered
What this day is for me.

I asked God today
To make him
See me. From near. Yet far.

I have looked at him closely, sometime ago.
Yet did not see him at all.
In his absence did not think of him.
Yet in his presence
I cherish the chatter. The laughter.

This sure sounds bizarre.
Because mine is a private space. Gated. Locked.
But I know this is new.
These footsteps. Vague. Yet present.

So I asked God what this meant.
He said, listen to them more...

Welcome2012 !!!!

The calendars on the table and walls have changed ! Wow it is 2012 ! Welcomed the eve of new year at the India House on the invitation of a close friend who is more a family than a friend !


Welcome 2012. Please give the world good memories !