Sounds of laughter in the far distance
Beckon me back to those innocent days
Of childhood dreams and naïve thoughts
Of naughty escapades and mischief galore.
A quiet demeanor housing a steely frame of mind
Quick on her feet and loving elder sister to me
One on whom I looked up and worshipped the words she uttered
Stood shattered that fateful day
No tears in her eyes, no emotions on her face
Tiny though her frame was then
She firmly held the ground she stood
To be the strength for the broken lot
As she lost her father at fifteen.
A free-spirited lively bird
She fluttered her colourful wings
And charmed all with her resounding laughter
Mischief writ large on her face
She drove many an elder crazy
With her noisy swimming and off-tune songs
And impulsive screams in the middle of the road.
Beautiful cheeks with the beauty spot
Won and broke many suitors’ hearts
Left us earthlings that fateful morning
To cheer the denizens of the heavenly abode
With her laughter, songs and colours.
The baby of the three
Always happy to be pampered
Built up many a castle
In her mind
Of love and a life
Weaving tenderly and lovingly
A future to hold on dear
And a love to hold her tight.
But a shattered heart lies today
Her dreams broken, though she stands firm
And still says
Life must go on
The past has flown and gone forever
Save for coming back in our dreams
And cherished memories and nostalgia
Why cling on to a dead dream
When life looms large and bright
Beckoning me to new hopes and a new world.
Childhood remembrances can mingle
With youthful joys of today
Till I too come a full circle
Before I can bid good-bye
To a life I lived and enjoyed
So here’s to my life
And all who’s given me
Even a moment of love
Here’s a happy cheer
For all I have cared for
Here’s to each one of us
Here’s to our lives!!!
8th June 2001
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
For Naocha my little sister, the Bride
Years of growing up together
Happy times spent
Laughter shared and childhood fights
Times have rolled
The heart has grown
Reminiscence is all that’s left.
Today a bride, bedecked with love
With myriad dreams in her mellowed heart
Taking on the next stage of life
Hand in hand with her beloved
Days have gone
And you have grown
From a little baby to a beautiful bride
But to me, as always has been
You will remain my little sister
To be loved and cared for
Whose tiny hands I would hold
And lead ahead along the path of life
Over the years I may have shown you
Different temperamental hues of mine
Angry outbursts and harsh scoldings
But in my heart I always nurtured
This inexplicable love so tender
Meant just for you and only you.
Today on your special day
My heart goes out once again
To pray and wish for you as always
All the possible joys of life
And a lifetime of happy togetherness with your love
Knowing that my love for you
Is also ever unceasing
And remember always
You are different from the rest
You are special in many ways
Because you are my little sister
My little sister, the bride today.
For the 12th of November
Happy times spent
Laughter shared and childhood fights
Times have rolled
The heart has grown
Reminiscence is all that’s left.
Today a bride, bedecked with love
With myriad dreams in her mellowed heart
Taking on the next stage of life
Hand in hand with her beloved
Days have gone
And you have grown
From a little baby to a beautiful bride
But to me, as always has been
You will remain my little sister
To be loved and cared for
Whose tiny hands I would hold
And lead ahead along the path of life
Over the years I may have shown you
Different temperamental hues of mine
Angry outbursts and harsh scoldings
But in my heart I always nurtured
This inexplicable love so tender
Meant just for you and only you.
Today on your special day
My heart goes out once again
To pray and wish for you as always
All the possible joys of life
And a lifetime of happy togetherness with your love
Knowing that my love for you
Is also ever unceasing
And remember always
You are different from the rest
You are special in many ways
Because you are my little sister
My little sister, the bride today.
For the 12th of November
Silent thoughts on the 4th of May
Golden beams caressing
Gently awoke me from my dreams
To a new day and new hopes
Riotous poppies in the front lawn
Swaying to the magic
Of the new breeze of the new season.
Awakenings of a mellowed heart
Songs of a new passion
Filling up my very soul
Fun, love and laughter
Music and my beloved.
Dew-wet rose petals
Lazy eddies around the lilies
Life lingers but never stops
Love leads you step by step.
The rain drenched pine trees
Glowed under the new rays
Fluttering parrots in wild abandon
Danced to their own rhythm.
Behind the clouds passing by
I see a clear silver lining
Amidst the crowded existence called life
I still see the rainbow peeping
I still see your face smiling
For life lingers but never stops
As love leads you step by step.
4th may 2001
Gently awoke me from my dreams
To a new day and new hopes
Riotous poppies in the front lawn
Swaying to the magic
Of the new breeze of the new season.
Awakenings of a mellowed heart
Songs of a new passion
Filling up my very soul
Fun, love and laughter
Music and my beloved.
Dew-wet rose petals
Lazy eddies around the lilies
Life lingers but never stops
Love leads you step by step.
The rain drenched pine trees
Glowed under the new rays
Fluttering parrots in wild abandon
Danced to their own rhythm.
Behind the clouds passing by
I see a clear silver lining
Amidst the crowded existence called life
I still see the rainbow peeping
I still see your face smiling
For life lingers but never stops
As love leads you step by step.
4th may 2001
Small wishes
Lazy moments and loving thoughts
Dreamy sights and groovy music
Bring back those gently happy smiles
Of innocent gestures
And stolen glances caught unawares
Times that have gone
Touch my heart and soul
Words uttered in sprightly mood
Slipping to hurt unintentionally
Of a world and a lifetime
Dreamt in those hazy hours
Gone forever, fallen to the deeps
Slowly, silently,
Hurting nonetheless.
A broken heart and a shattered soul
Hope-less thoughts and passionless emotions
Carrying on with the tireless journey
Crying softly into the silent nights
Resting in the company of my faithful tears
Seeking for that unknown strength
Seeking for my destiny
A moment of laughter
A moment of friendship
That was all I was looking for
That is all I want from life.
11th June 2001
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Grow grey graciously
I remember as a little girl, I was very fond of making décor items from scraps, especially during the holidays. If I came across any interesting piece of textured paper, card, postcard, cloth, stone, bangle, bead, wood etc., I would collect them and put them in my little box for use sometime. I made my first autograph album using items from that box; I made dolls and a doll house; I made wall hangings; and so on. But one thing that took place of pride on our show case was a small smooth block of wood, about 10 cm by 5 cm, with a thickness of about 1 ½ cm on which I had painted calligraphically, the words: Grow grey graciously. The words were written in such a way that one big ‘G’ occupied the left side of the wooden surface, while the rest of the letters for the remaining three words were scripted on the right side, one below the other, to complete the saying. I don’t remember what it was that struck my young mind at that point of time to have liked the saying so much and to have captured them in one of my ‘works of art’. Anyway people have said that as a child I was always very matured for my age. But that’s another matter for another blog some other time.
The other day, something happened that brought back memories of my little work of art on growing grey graciously. I never thought that more than 25 years later, that small piece of wood with my little calligraphy would come back to remind me of a lesson of life and bring a smile on my face. And I thought I must write this down.
I joined the Indian Civil Services in 1997. And as is always with every batch of the Civil Services, our batch was a motley group from various streams, including doctors, engineers, MBAs, PhDs, post graduates and graduates from science, commerce and humanities. Our ages also ranged from young to not so young. But there was one thing that bound almost all of us, apart from being 1997 batch civil servants. And that was the ‘hair’ on our heads. I realized that we could be roughly grouped into two broad categories depending upon the state of the ‘crop’ on our heads, irrespective of whether we were young or not so young. On one hand were those who had streaks of grey highlights on their black heads. And on the other hand were those whose hairlines were either receding, or the overall crop had tremendously thinned down. There were also few who could fit into both groups, but very very few who fell in neither. And the last lot were not necessarily the youngest ones. While my closest friend stood an annoyed but undoubted member of the first category, I clearly belonged to the second one. And while she bothered about applying henna to cover up the salted look, I used to calm her down by saying that at least she has the hair, whatever colour it may be.
I didn’t realize I would ever hear those words again myself.
Ten years down the line, one day sometime in 2007, as I was casually preening myself in front of the mirror, I suddenly thought I saw a shiny streak on my head. I thought it was the light. I ran the brush again on that same part, and then casually parted the hair with my hands, and lo behold there was indeed a single strand of grey trying to catch a little more light than its jet black counterparts, as if wanting to show off that its brighter and better than the rest!!!
I stood stunned for a few seconds.
‘No way!’ I suddenly told myself, as if chiding that lone grey hair, as if some rule has been blasphemously broken, perhaps making that grey one know how unwanted it was. I quickly plucked it out from my head, and threw it into the waste bin. And I searched my head to see if any of its colored campanions lurked hidden in the black midst.
Since then, it became almost a regular feature, and every now and then I would find a grey hair striking a regal pose and raising a quiet hand as if asking for my consent to occupy space on me. I said ‘No’, and diligently continued to pluck them off as and when one came to my notice. So there they went: one, two, three, four and five, through 2007 to 2008.
Then came the 4th of October, 2009. It was a lazy Sunday. I wasn’t feeling too well on account of an overdose of antibiotics on a simple illness. My son Agastya had done his share of drawing and computer games, and was practising catching a tennis ball, occasionally throwing the ball at me to check whether his mom could make clean catches. I was applying oil on my hair. And we were also chatting as we carried on with all this. Oiling over, I went to the bathroom to wash my hands, and happened to fiddle with the hair just above my left crown, trying to see if I could straighten the slight curls around that area. And I noticed another one of those dreaded shiny white strands again. I wanted to pull it out, and tried separating it from the black strands since the hair had become slightly sticky on account of the oil. I didn’t want to unnecessarily lose any black hair while pulling out the white one. While doing so, I saw three more white strands in close vicinity, all of them tiny new sprouts. I stopped myself from checking any further. I called Agastya and told him that mama is getting old, and he can come and see the white hair on my head. He came, had a look, said ‘ok’ and carried on with his game.
I was pretty disturbed. I don’t know why. Maybe I was insecure about getting old and maybe I thought grey hair definitely meant that there’s no stopping it.
I came back to my room, and stood in front of the dressing table, continuing to scour my head randomly. Agastya gave a throw, calling out ‘Catch!’ to me. I wasn’t alert enough, and the ball went rolling underneath the bed. Agastya crawled and reclaimed it, and asked me to be more alert when he threw the ball the next time round. I continued to count and recount the four white hair, assuring and reassuring myself that its only four and no more. I repeated to my son that I am growing old.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because my hair is beginning to grey.’
I don’t know whether I was responding to his query or telling myself, hoping for some miracle to rewind the clock, hoping someone to reassure me that that’s not happening.
Suddenly all the ‘thud thud’ sound of the tennis ball hitting the ball stopped, and I found Agastya standing next to me near the mirror.
‘Show me,’ he said nonchalantly. And I did. Roles seemed reversed for sometime. I was the child, and he the calm adult.
He took a look, and appeared the least disturbed. And this was what he told me:
‘Look mama, you are not getting old. And you are not old. I will not let you grow old. So what if you have few white hairs. I can’t see them. And even if I can see them, how does that matter. I will never allow you to grow old. You have to remain the way you are. If you grow old you won’t be able to play with me; I won’t be able to practice cricket, tennis, football with you. I have an idea ! I think you can now colour your hair just like aunty Thoibisana has done the other day. Her hair was looking nice with some red colour that shines when she goes out in the sun. I think for you we can try either purple or green. I think that will be better than red. And anyway I love you whether you have black, white or grey hair.’
By then, I was already smiling and Agastya was also full on. In fact, I had to stop him by saying that I would rather prefer to have white hair than purple or green. And that its no problem anymore. He seemed pretty happy, gave me a hug and kissed me on my cheeks and got back to his game.
‘Catch’, he threw the ball.
And I made a neat catch.
Agastya may be only six and a half, but sometimes my son speaks with so much of maturity. Maybe it’s the innocence, maybe it’s his unconditional love for me. Maybe he is reassuring himself and not me when he says that mama cannot grow old. Maybe that’s his way of protecting his domain of comfort and security. But whatever it is, it surely had the effect of also wrapping me in a fold of love and warmth, where there is no room for any kind of doubt, or any kind of worry about grey hair sprouting on my head.
Loss of youth, old age and mortality are fears that lurk in every person’s mind and heart. While excessive concern with the first may hint at some level of frivolity, we cannot deny that the first is linked with the next two, consciously or sub-consciously. But a few grey strands need not disturb the very boat of life. Grey hair doesn’t mean that one is going to become senile overnight. Neither does it mean that I shall no longer be loved any more by those who love me anyway. Whether my hair greys or continues to be jet black, I am still my mother’s favourite, and she continues to be concerned about me if I even accidentally cough while speaking to her over phone. There’s no point in pulling my hair out over its colour or lack of it. Growth is part of life and greying too is a part of that growth. I embrace that with all the grace and maturity that can come only with age and experience. I must have been barely eleven or twelve when the beauty of the saying ‘Grow grey graciously’ struck me. Now is the time to live it. I shall grow grey graciously !!!
The other day, something happened that brought back memories of my little work of art on growing grey graciously. I never thought that more than 25 years later, that small piece of wood with my little calligraphy would come back to remind me of a lesson of life and bring a smile on my face. And I thought I must write this down.
I joined the Indian Civil Services in 1997. And as is always with every batch of the Civil Services, our batch was a motley group from various streams, including doctors, engineers, MBAs, PhDs, post graduates and graduates from science, commerce and humanities. Our ages also ranged from young to not so young. But there was one thing that bound almost all of us, apart from being 1997 batch civil servants. And that was the ‘hair’ on our heads. I realized that we could be roughly grouped into two broad categories depending upon the state of the ‘crop’ on our heads, irrespective of whether we were young or not so young. On one hand were those who had streaks of grey highlights on their black heads. And on the other hand were those whose hairlines were either receding, or the overall crop had tremendously thinned down. There were also few who could fit into both groups, but very very few who fell in neither. And the last lot were not necessarily the youngest ones. While my closest friend stood an annoyed but undoubted member of the first category, I clearly belonged to the second one. And while she bothered about applying henna to cover up the salted look, I used to calm her down by saying that at least she has the hair, whatever colour it may be.
I didn’t realize I would ever hear those words again myself.
Ten years down the line, one day sometime in 2007, as I was casually preening myself in front of the mirror, I suddenly thought I saw a shiny streak on my head. I thought it was the light. I ran the brush again on that same part, and then casually parted the hair with my hands, and lo behold there was indeed a single strand of grey trying to catch a little more light than its jet black counterparts, as if wanting to show off that its brighter and better than the rest!!!
I stood stunned for a few seconds.
‘No way!’ I suddenly told myself, as if chiding that lone grey hair, as if some rule has been blasphemously broken, perhaps making that grey one know how unwanted it was. I quickly plucked it out from my head, and threw it into the waste bin. And I searched my head to see if any of its colored campanions lurked hidden in the black midst.
Since then, it became almost a regular feature, and every now and then I would find a grey hair striking a regal pose and raising a quiet hand as if asking for my consent to occupy space on me. I said ‘No’, and diligently continued to pluck them off as and when one came to my notice. So there they went: one, two, three, four and five, through 2007 to 2008.
Then came the 4th of October, 2009. It was a lazy Sunday. I wasn’t feeling too well on account of an overdose of antibiotics on a simple illness. My son Agastya had done his share of drawing and computer games, and was practising catching a tennis ball, occasionally throwing the ball at me to check whether his mom could make clean catches. I was applying oil on my hair. And we were also chatting as we carried on with all this. Oiling over, I went to the bathroom to wash my hands, and happened to fiddle with the hair just above my left crown, trying to see if I could straighten the slight curls around that area. And I noticed another one of those dreaded shiny white strands again. I wanted to pull it out, and tried separating it from the black strands since the hair had become slightly sticky on account of the oil. I didn’t want to unnecessarily lose any black hair while pulling out the white one. While doing so, I saw three more white strands in close vicinity, all of them tiny new sprouts. I stopped myself from checking any further. I called Agastya and told him that mama is getting old, and he can come and see the white hair on my head. He came, had a look, said ‘ok’ and carried on with his game.
I was pretty disturbed. I don’t know why. Maybe I was insecure about getting old and maybe I thought grey hair definitely meant that there’s no stopping it.
I came back to my room, and stood in front of the dressing table, continuing to scour my head randomly. Agastya gave a throw, calling out ‘Catch!’ to me. I wasn’t alert enough, and the ball went rolling underneath the bed. Agastya crawled and reclaimed it, and asked me to be more alert when he threw the ball the next time round. I continued to count and recount the four white hair, assuring and reassuring myself that its only four and no more. I repeated to my son that I am growing old.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because my hair is beginning to grey.’
I don’t know whether I was responding to his query or telling myself, hoping for some miracle to rewind the clock, hoping someone to reassure me that that’s not happening.
Suddenly all the ‘thud thud’ sound of the tennis ball hitting the ball stopped, and I found Agastya standing next to me near the mirror.
‘Show me,’ he said nonchalantly. And I did. Roles seemed reversed for sometime. I was the child, and he the calm adult.
He took a look, and appeared the least disturbed. And this was what he told me:
‘Look mama, you are not getting old. And you are not old. I will not let you grow old. So what if you have few white hairs. I can’t see them. And even if I can see them, how does that matter. I will never allow you to grow old. You have to remain the way you are. If you grow old you won’t be able to play with me; I won’t be able to practice cricket, tennis, football with you. I have an idea ! I think you can now colour your hair just like aunty Thoibisana has done the other day. Her hair was looking nice with some red colour that shines when she goes out in the sun. I think for you we can try either purple or green. I think that will be better than red. And anyway I love you whether you have black, white or grey hair.’
By then, I was already smiling and Agastya was also full on. In fact, I had to stop him by saying that I would rather prefer to have white hair than purple or green. And that its no problem anymore. He seemed pretty happy, gave me a hug and kissed me on my cheeks and got back to his game.
‘Catch’, he threw the ball.
And I made a neat catch.
Agastya may be only six and a half, but sometimes my son speaks with so much of maturity. Maybe it’s the innocence, maybe it’s his unconditional love for me. Maybe he is reassuring himself and not me when he says that mama cannot grow old. Maybe that’s his way of protecting his domain of comfort and security. But whatever it is, it surely had the effect of also wrapping me in a fold of love and warmth, where there is no room for any kind of doubt, or any kind of worry about grey hair sprouting on my head.
Loss of youth, old age and mortality are fears that lurk in every person’s mind and heart. While excessive concern with the first may hint at some level of frivolity, we cannot deny that the first is linked with the next two, consciously or sub-consciously. But a few grey strands need not disturb the very boat of life. Grey hair doesn’t mean that one is going to become senile overnight. Neither does it mean that I shall no longer be loved any more by those who love me anyway. Whether my hair greys or continues to be jet black, I am still my mother’s favourite, and she continues to be concerned about me if I even accidentally cough while speaking to her over phone. There’s no point in pulling my hair out over its colour or lack of it. Growth is part of life and greying too is a part of that growth. I embrace that with all the grace and maturity that can come only with age and experience. I must have been barely eleven or twelve when the beauty of the saying ‘Grow grey graciously’ struck me. Now is the time to live it. I shall grow grey graciously !!!
Friday, July 24, 2009
My neglected blog
I didn't realise it.
But my blog turned one today.
And it is pitiable that I had left my Pot Pouri' totally neglected all this while.
I started this blog more for my own satisfaction of writing down stuff I would like to recall and remember later. Nothing specific, things that happen in the normal course of life, simple joys and everyday happenings. It was meant to encapsulate in written words what I saw, felt or experienced on anything, and then enjoy the magic of reliving and re-experiencing them years hence, and share a smile with my inner self. It was meant to be something like my virtual diary. And today I realised that I haven't done much justice either to those intentions or to Pot Pouri, my virtual corner. This is not fair at all. Not fair to Pot Pouri, not fair to myself.
In this one year, I have lived another 365 days of my life and I didn't even bother to take out a few hours every now and then to reflect and jot down on whatever is happening. Therefore, today I resolve to try my best to regularly update Pot Pouri on the the small joys and little experiences that one encounters as one sails through the journey of life. Nothing extraordinary, just everyday musings, simple and straightforward, the way I want things to be.
But my blog turned one today.
And it is pitiable that I had left my Pot Pouri' totally neglected all this while.
I started this blog more for my own satisfaction of writing down stuff I would like to recall and remember later. Nothing specific, things that happen in the normal course of life, simple joys and everyday happenings. It was meant to encapsulate in written words what I saw, felt or experienced on anything, and then enjoy the magic of reliving and re-experiencing them years hence, and share a smile with my inner self. It was meant to be something like my virtual diary. And today I realised that I haven't done much justice either to those intentions or to Pot Pouri, my virtual corner. This is not fair at all. Not fair to Pot Pouri, not fair to myself.
In this one year, I have lived another 365 days of my life and I didn't even bother to take out a few hours every now and then to reflect and jot down on whatever is happening. Therefore, today I resolve to try my best to regularly update Pot Pouri on the the small joys and little experiences that one encounters as one sails through the journey of life. Nothing extraordinary, just everyday musings, simple and straightforward, the way I want things to be.
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