Memories

       A friend of mine, recently having lost his grandfather to a battle against age, was fondly reminiscing to me about the good memories that he had left before he passed away. Listening to his anecdotes on the funny sayings and doings of his grandpa brought back memories of my own grandmother who passed away about six and a half years ago.

       My grandma was an unexpected and beautiful mixture. While having all the makings of a typical Brahmin grandmother – pious, religious and full of stories (and of course, invariably making us wake up to the sound of either the Suprabhatham or the Vishnu Sahasranamam on Podhigai TV every time we stayed the night at her place) – she was also an educated woman, a teacher of math and science in her time, with a fluency in English seldom seen in women of her generation. She was a delight to talk to, and managed to effortlessly receive a natural affection from her multitude of children and grandchildren. Each of us was close to her in our own way and, although I never realised it back then, she had a way of seeing the good in everybody and making them feel appreciated. It was one of the things that drew people close to her.
       She had a soft corner for mythology, which was inherited by each of us in turn, and the Mahabharatha is one of the family’s favourites. I loved the long discussions I used to have with her on the characters and the incidents in the book, with strongly opinionated debates on right and wrong, calling into question the ethical considerations of every action of every Pandava or Kaurava. Even today, whenever I discuss the Mahabharatha with anybody and need to get my facts right, the first thing that comes to mind is, “Oh man, Paati would know this!”.
       Having been around during India’s independence, she always showed signs of wanting to teach me more about Indian history. At the time, I hated history what with it being forcefully fed to me at school, and I always changed the subject when she tried to convince me. Lately, an interest in history and a thirst for knowledge seems to have developed in me, and I regret not having asked her all the questions that I have right now. I could have learnt so much from her and it saddens me that I never used the opportunity when I had it. I did, however, listen with rapt attention to a different kind of history lesson – our family’s. She told me stories of the generation before hers, of the hardships they faced, of the people that died before I was born, of the children given for adoption, of the good times, and of the tragedies. Whenever I would listen to these stories, it always felt like some interesting lore, like a new book I was reading. Now, I am older and will probably connect to it on an emotional and personal level, being able to acknowledge that they were all my family, but I doubt anybody else can quite narrate to me the way she did.
       There are a lot of other random memories that strike me now and then. I will never forget the way she used to reprimand me when I left a book open and facing downwards, and taught me the importance of using a bookmark, to prevent the damage caused to the spine of the book by not doing so. It seemed a tiny, outwardly insignificant thing, but to me, it became one of those habits that stuck. And it became one of those memories of her that will never fade. To this day, I cannot bring myself to close a book without using a bookmark, and when I see anyone leave a book open face down, I shudder at the disrespect shown towards the book, and of how disappointed my Paati would be.
       I had another flashback recently while discussing birthday cards with a friend. I recalled the card that my cousins and I had made for my grandparents’ 50th wedding anniversary. Our parents had organized festivities for the same, and we had drawn and coloured a huge card that included caricatures of all ten grandchildren and messages of best wishes from us. While the making of the card itself was a lot of fun, I also felt a great sense of pride and excitement at Paati’s reaction upon beholding it, and the way she held it with her to show it off to all our other relatives during the function! It felt really good to have contributed to making their day even more special.
       One thing I really miss about her was her signature exclamation of indignation. We were a most naughty bunch, my cousins and I. And every time we pulled one of our crazy antics, it was the cue for her to cry “Narayana!!”, with a lilt in her voice, and a tone fraught with exasperation! She had an extremely adorable way of saying it, and most of the time it only made us chuckle and egged us on further! Sometimes, I would take my mischief a step further just to hear her exclaim. When I think about it, I can still hear her just as clearly as back then – it is another of those evergreen memories that she left behind.
       I remember the evening before she died, I had talked to her on the phone and she told me to keep my parents happy and always take care of my brother. It was the last thing she ever said to me, and it was almost as if she knew.  If she knew today that I was writing about her, or that I think about her ever so often, it would make her really happy. I am glad of having had the fortune of getting as close to her as I did during the time she was with me. I am happy to have made so many memories with my Revathi Paati. :)

How I got here

It is one thing to find yourself at a loss for words, but an entirely different thing to face a dearth of outlets when you finally do find the words. It was a situation like that, which pushed me to pen down my thoughts. Of late, apart from a couple of pieces for my college magazine, my creative process was whittled down to cooking up concepts and formulae for semester exams when I didn’t remember the right answer. Then one day, a head bursting with mixed emotions, opinions and ideas took a dump in my newly opened diary, and that was when I rediscovered the joy of writing, a joy that I had long forgotten. Soon, I found myself revisiting what I had written and editing sentences and tweaking the language here and there. Feedback seemed to be the only thing missing, and I considered starting a blog. I remembered how it always annoyed me that the essays I wrote in school were expected to have more meaningful and relevant content and how it was never enough to just be fluent and expressive. Then I figured, a blog would give me all the freedom I wanted. But once I started giving it serious thought, I seemed to be at a loss again. I had a million ideas but couldn’t decide which one to pick. I thought of a book review, given how much I love reading. But once I started, I knew it would probably be as long as the book itself, with everything I had to say! Then I considered writing about a current affair, like the Delhi rape incident, or the Connecticut shooting. But, given my indignation at the events, I reflected that it was probably not the best idea for my first ever blog article to be filled with profanity. A few days ago, a Tambrahm couple started chatting with me animatedly at the airport in Hyderabad, and it got me thinking about how a common language can elevate people to a whole new level of mutual comfort. Having faced a similar situation many times from both ends, I decided that it was a promising topic, and resolved to organize my thoughts during the flight and write it down as soon as I landed. On boarding, however, my mind had different plans. My attention was attracted by an adorable little kid who was convinced that the wings of the plane were going to break. I vaguely contemplated writing about my childhood but I was too distracted by then, to give it serious thought. But it did get me thinking back to when I was little, and how I used to wait for the plane to rise above the clouds, so that I could find out if angels really lived there, like I had seen in Looney Tunes. Although I knew better since then, I still felt that familiar rush of excitement as I looked out the window and watched the world from above, the cottony white fluffs slowly and lazily gliding away to reveal the Indian coast. I gazed in awe at the sea and the alternating patches of green and brown on land. It took me back to another flight I had taken in the night, where I had looked out the window and tried to guess which patches were cities and which were villages, based on the level of electrification. Just as I thought I had managed to achieve an unwavering train of thought, I realized that the flight I was reminiscing about was the one I had taken to my convocation. And it happened all over again. All thoughts whizzed out of my brain, this time to be replaced by yearning memories of college, friends, juniors, seniors, the classrooms, the auditorium, the roads, the hostel, and a good many other things, the listing of which itself would be longer than the book review I mentioned.
All those memories came rushing back, but I still couldn’t find what I was looking for. I thought about a couple of my friends’ blogs, that I loved reading. One of them had already covered a lot of topics that I was interested in, and we are so uncannily similar in our views that if I voiced my opinion about any of the same things, he would have to sue me for plagiarism! Another friend, however, seemed to write straight from the heart, anything and everything that she thought or felt. And in the end, that is just what I proceeded to do. And for once, it feels really good not having to worry about the content! So that’s pretty much how I got here. Welcome to the place I’m going to put down all my random thoughts that I want to revisit later. Welcome to my pensieve. :)