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.
Friday, July 25, 2008
A splash in the past!!
A good part of my recollections of childhood centres around a place- our family pond, and two persons- my cousins Chenta (Anita) and Bebe (late Ibemal), and the various escapades I had with them, not necessarily in the pond.
When I look over my shoulders to the past and try to pick up the beautiful moments bygone, the family ‘pukhri’ at Kwakeithel is the biggest image that always springs up to my mind. With its expanse of clear green waters and the variety of nature that thrived on and in it, the pond stands for a vivid part of my life- the freedom, the purity, the unsullied beauty of a hassle free childhood. Happy were the afternoons when we’d sneak out of the house, while the elders snoozed, to take a dip in its cool depths. Crazy were the moments when unable to keep calm, we’d break out into wanton squeals of pleasure and start splashing around. The noise would obviously wake the resting guardians who would chase us left and right and back to the sheltered interiors of the house much to our disappointment. Unforgettable also were the varied punishments we received for defying their orders.
Chenta, Bebe and I had exciting moments swimming the entire breadth of the ‘pukhri’ to the temple orchard (Lai Ingkhol) beyond, which was out of bounds for us. The fruit laden trees would beckon us and we would cross all obstacles to get to them and fill ourselves to our hearts’ content and come back dripping with the aroma of those ripe guavas and sweet yellow mangoes. What fun we had sneaking in to pluck-honey suckles, jasmines and hibiscus flowers to adorn the bridal bowers of our dolls.
Literally having a whole horde of cousins to share those fun-laden days added a lot more to the simple joys. The pond, our ‘pukhri’, where we learnt to steam out lives, to break out our energies, to swim and steer, to angle for fish and to net. The pond, which today, stands as the most apt symbol of the micro world of our childhood, so fulfilling.
Together with the pond, my cousins Chenta and Bebe form indelible parts of my memories of childhood. We three formed a gang, a ridiculous replica of the three musketeers, always armed in our own ways making many an elder smile and also pull their hair with our antics and hilarity.
I remember the incident when I was the spoilsport and threatened to expose and report the two of them for having accepted toffees from a local ‘stranger’. The fear of the repercussions that may come about made my naïve cousins decide on the best possible escape they could think of, which was to run a parallel home independently on their own on the attic of Bebe’s house where they cleverly shifted and arranged a floor-mat with their respective sleeping materials. And the food they hoarded for their ‘new home’ consisted of a few balls of jaggeried puffed rice and some betel leaves and areca nuts, bought with money taken from Chenta’s good-hearted grand mother (Thockchom abok) who lived close by. I remember how heartbroken I was on not being allowed to be a part of their exciting venture. Oh! how I envied them.
Impossible to forget is also the occasion when Bebe and I had the charity to share a meat delicacy we were relishing in her house with the statuette of ‘Shiva ji’ which happened to be there in the same room. We went on to smear it liberally with the gravy with such gusto, happy in our generosity only to be given a good spanking by Bebe’s mother (Machoubi) on her discovery, later, of our ‘mischief’. We were bewildered and failed to understand elders and their teachings on the values of sharing and eating together.
The colourful ‘holis’ we enjoyed sneaking out of the compound from the ‘man-made’ hole in the hedge at the back of the house; the secret trips we made to the Mahabali temple on ‘Krishna Janm’ much to the chagrin of our hard core meitei grandfathers (Aubok and Paajee); the absolute chaos we created at the tailor’s called ’69 Park’ on the day the three of us went to get trousers made for ourselves from our respective fathers’ old pair of pants- all stand proof of the mad days we had together providing juicy nostalgia and good story telling to our younger cousins and also to our children and nieces and nephews today.
We grew out of those fun-filled years. The pond now stands in what remains of it as two dirty shallow pits of muddy water. I hardly get to meet Chenta as often as I would like to. Bebe left us for her heavenly abode in her hurried manner as if impatient to subject the very Gods to her crazy entertaining. But I carry those memories with me wherever I go. And I shall continue to cherish endlessly those precious days, those priceless moments, spent in and out of the waters of our ‘pukhri’ sprinkled with magenta lilies, and the years of happiness shared with Chenta and Bebe.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
My first steps in blogosphere
My very own blog ‘Pot Pouri’ took birth today, 23rd July 2008. Call it herd mentality or whatever, but ever since blogging came into existence, I had always wanted to create my own little blogging corner to put down my thoughts, experiences, musings, memories or existential questions directed at nobody in particular.
Having always been fascinated by the magic of the written word, and the wonders it can do to the human heart, mind and soul, I have made quite a few spontaneous attempts at putting words on paper. And the experience have been extremely liberating, de-stressing, intimate, creatively fulfilling and exhilarating at times, although I claim to be no great wordsmith. The simple experiences of everyday life seem to gain a differnt kind of meaning and depth when one scripts them into the form of written words.
‘Pot Pouri’ will be yet another diversified attempt at reaching out to that fulfillment of seeing depth in simplicity.
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