the excess blah

If there is one thing I cannot stand, it's the uppity. The hoity-toity, the snooty, the plainly insensitive conceited individuals who lack everything except perhaps their branded goods.
The kind who make it a point to drop names by the minute, have no sense of restraint when it comes to glorifying their so-called superiority, the kind who have a warped sense of success and pleasure - in condescending others and in feigning happiness. The kind who derive their notions about others from the latter's appearances, from their size of the house/car/jewellery/lifestyle.

There are some utterances that have really annoyed me in the past. While listening to them, I smiled and nodded in wonder. Later, I thrashed myself for standing through it. If you don't agree with something, if you think your patience is being tested with soliloquies, walk away, I said to myself. Or give it right back. As always, witty retorts don't always come to mind when you most need them, but re-running the episodes in the mind much later, I always manage to find something that I could have said.

Some instances, I've even felt pity. It must be a deep-rooted sense of insecurity that is taking this form of extreme flashiness. This self-display is less about haves and more about some vaccum within. A sense of worth perhaps? Ignorance?

Somewhere along all these years, I've realised, the truly worthy people are the quietest of the lot. They don't see the need to trumpet their achievements, their extraordinary possessions, or their unique standing in their niches. Their humiliy is at the core of their being and their success is in their composure; they are the ones who have the same smile and the same respect for everyone - bank-balance no bar, background no bar. They are the genuinely happy lot - no exhibitionism, no masks. They are the ones who can laugh at themselves as well as understand that their good luck is just a blessing.

Life is a leveller, don't we all know that? I've had those moments of fake reality too, and every single time, I've got a rap on my knuckles - sometimes gently, sometimes not so gently. But it's been a learning everytime.

Like the time I was walking down a familiar lane back in Ernakulam during my last visit there five months ago. I held an umbrella to protect me from the intermitten rain, I wore a slightly impatient look that was directed at the woman and the child ahead of me in the tiny lane. "Walk in the centre! Where's your head, the sides are layered with fungii, you'll slip, make use of your brains atleast once in a while," she admonished the little girl in chaste Tamil. They were my grandmother's neighbours, I'd seen them around but never stopped to smile.

My eyes dropped to the lady's ankles, her worn out salwar tips and her rubber footwear. Perhaps a good decision considering the unrelenting rain, but to my biased eyes, they were plainly unflattering. I smirked as I heard the mother admonish the child, "what uncivilised mother would talk to the child like that," I thought. I had to move past them and walk ahead I thought, and softly hummed an "excuse me." They paused and moved an inch to the side to make way, and I walked ahead. The next moment I felt my feet give away, my legs sliding and my arms flailing as the fungii did its job. A loud scream emerged from my throat, and I could almost see the sky. But something helped me from landing on the ground, a firm hand, a firmer grip and an unbiased hold. It was the lady, a look of concern on her face, hands now steadily placed on my shoulders asking me if I was alright. "I was just telling my daughter to avoid walking by the side here, it's really slippery," she said. I looked at her, gratitude on my face, shame beneath.

This is the lady I judged merely by her appearance and her choice of language. This is the lady I dared to think was beneath my social radar. And in the swift action of a second, someone up there decided to set me right, and show me that it was not for me to decide who was superior. We walked together till the end of the road, as I said "thank you" to her for the hundredth time in the next five minutes and discussed the sad state of affair in the muncipality.

When I got home, I narrated the entire episode to my mother. I asked her if it is was nature's way of showing me humility. She laughed, and said, of course yes, "Haven't you heard that saying, pride comes before the fall"? Oh yes I had, I nodded. "I'd just momentarily forgotten it," I winked. "You won't forget that for a while now," she retorted.

The gift of Dollar

I sat on the dining table, pretending to be studying, peering over my books. Sensing my mother's watchful eyes, making sure I was learning every bit of that damn history lesson, I prayed for a miracle. Learning about the ground-breaking events of the 12th century on a Sunday evening in the 20th century wasn't my idea of fun. I needed an escape.

And then, it happened. Dollar, our year-old pomeranian, happily bounced into the living room from the kitchen, two long drumstick in his mouth, furiously wagging his tail, eyes with that alluring mischievous glint. He pranced about in front of us, shaking his booty, teasing us in his inimitable way - "come get my drumsticks, you boring humans!" My prayer was answered, and we gave in to his game.

Back in early May 1995, when he first came into our home as a one-month old pup, he was just a tiny furball. How he survived those initial delicate days around two excited kids is a mystery. I sat him on my lap once, his tiny body trembling in fear. Even as he was trying to settle into a comfortable position, I stood up (thinking he would jump down like a cat), dropping him to the floor. Yelping in pain, he scampered about. He wailed on for a few hours, and slowly dozed off under my mother's care. I sat looking at him, tears rolling down my cheeks, fearing he would never wake up, wondering what I would do if he did not.

The next morning, feeling a wet lick on my nose, I opened my eyes to see two soulful ones looking back at me. He was alive. And forgiving too.

I placed my hands over his tiny head, nuzzled into his squirmy neck and whispered into his ears that I would never ever let his gentle soul ache again. Some more licks in return.

We named him Dollar after Richie Rich's famous pet. Dollar eventually became Dolu, but the characteristic fame stuck on. Dolu became the family mascot as he travelled with us everywhere. Public transport was ditched, and we now hired cars to accomodate our furry family member. Road trips to Kerala, our native place, with Dollar sticking his head out of the window, barking at obnoxious truck drivers and nudging us off our seats was secretly enjoyed, but publicly frowned upon. Every stopover we made, Dollar made it his mission to mark his territory. So off he trotted to mark that tree at Kumta, that lampost in Mangalore, that tea shop in Kasargod, that petrol pump in Thrissur. As far as he knew, he would visit these places again, and he didn't want to get lost then. At Ernakulam, grandparents eagerly waited by the verandah, now not just looking forward to grandkids, but also a grand-pet! Visiting relatives enroute, Dollar charmed his way into their hearts, gardens, houses and even ponds. We were gradually becoming Dollar's family.

One time in Hubli, on a friday evening, when the family decided to dine out, Dollar was chosen to stay home. He protested, bolted through the front door and refused to get back in. But, depositing him back inside the house, we knew only too well that a silent protest would greet us later. On opening the door two hours thereafter, nothing prepared us for the scene inside. The living room resembled a paper factory, with shards of paper strewn on every bit of furniture and carpet. A mangled piece of notebook was being meticulously chewn through. On prying open the little devil's mouth, my brother let out a woeful cry. His Sanskrit notebook was being devoured to its last crumble, every vyakarana scrunched down to its last perfect tense. Our Sanskrit teacher in school read out the most unbelievable explanation letter from his pupil's mother to the rest of the staff the next morning. A standing joke at many PTA meetings thereafter.

Over the years, Dollar grew up, but not his antics. Most people we knew loved him, some despite being victims of his outrageoous canine instincts. An uncle had his new Bata slippers covered in poo, a not-so-favourite acquaintance had his leg mistaken for a tree, my grandmother found one of her precious silk sarees turned into a rug, a little cousin found her doll mangled to bits. On a particular social evening, the family's embarassment reached new heights as the dog decided to drag in his family's underwear from the laundry bag, in full view of the roaring audience, as if it were the prize catch of the day! As always, the contented look on his face after such feats made us wonder if there really was a conspiracy division working overtime in his miniscule brain!

But Dollar was Dollar not for his tomfoolery, or his snowball looks. His punch lay in his innocent heart; and his overwhelming love for us, his human family. Am I yet to mention the time when he took on a large alsation dog on the street just to protect my mother from being pounced upon? Or the time when he gently snuggled up to me on days that I found myself bound to the bed with a sniffle and a temperature. It was nice to know he was there, probably listening to my random mumbles, probably even understanding it, whining and sighing at appropriate intervals.

Dollar saw through my college days, my hostel days, my first-job days, and my initial married life. My significant other doted on my furball as much as I did, and Dolu had accepted him as family even before we knew it ourselves. After moving cities, my every visit home was an adventure, in that it saw the grand welcome by Dollar. He made it a point to let me know that he wanted me home, his home.

On the evening of May 4th, 2006, just as hubby prepared to leave for an official visit to another city, the phone rang. He spoke briefly, asked if everything else was okay and hung up. Packing his bags, I looked up to see a tense face. "You wouldn't want to hear this but you have to be strong," he said. And I expected the worst. Dollar was dead. He was murdered. Burglars broke into the house in broad daylight, when no one else was home except for an aging Dollar. As they approached the trunk in the bedroom, metal rod in hand to break open the lock, Dollar stood in between, and barked on as fiercely as he could. They obviously found him threatening, as the next blow struck his small head.
That was the fatal blow, and my Dollar never wailed this time. He was silenced forever.
His blood on the floor, his small body right in front of the trunk, strategically lying between valuables in the house and any intruder.

We never got out of the shock. Every photograph, every memory invoked tears, but it now leads to a smile as well. And a warm feeling deep inside. We knew Dollar was reaching his prime, and that the end would be near. We knew in someway too that Dollar would not go down suffering. He died fighting for his family till the very end, and we know he died without pain. He died a hero. Loving and protecting us till death.

Wasn't it Mark Twain who once said, "The dog is a gentleman; I hope to go to his heaven, not man's"? I hope for that too, not for anything else, but to meet my Dollar sometime again, hug him and say, thank you for those 11 beautiful years.

chasing geese on ice

My brother went trigger-happy recently when he felt his first ever heavy snowfall. "It's alll white and beautiful and not even that cold!!!" he shrieked on the phone. It turns out that the lake in his university park was frozen, and a bunch of geese decided it was time to ice-skate! Bro tells me it was the most fun he'd ever had on a wild goose chase!

an evening

It's 4 pm, and I can see the lights on the Vauxhall bridge turning on. An unobstructed view of the Thames is what I get from my window, and if I lean my head out, I can hear the small waves splash on to the barrier. I turn my attention to that last paragraph that needs tweaking before it gets uploaded, and am lost in thought. J approaches from behind, slaps my shoulder and gasps. "Look at that, will you." I follow her gaze, and am equally dumbstruck. The setting sun has taken the form of a big glowing orange ball against a deeply violet sky, and the silhouette of the towering MI6 building is adding to the aura. It's beautiful and for a moment, everyone's feeling warm on this chilly evening. We break into a happy chatter, and someone passes around a box of Thorntons.

A while later, we're talking holidays. P tells me that Xmas is just another day in front of the television for his wife and him. "There's no family, parents are long gone, siblings are busy with their own kids," his voice slightly choked. I look embarassed, mumble something about the economy affecting this festive season, and turn away.

In my head, I hear voices telling me to talk to him further. He's never spoken like this at work, he must be feeling really lonely. P, in his early 60s, has always been the silent kind, speaks only when spoken to, preferring to work on his own. These past few days though, he's been talking to me a lot more. There's a camaraderie we share - born out of several hours of Dreamweaver discussions, market talk, sarah palin bashing and you tube findings. He warned me that the monster would eat me up if I dared to go near Lochness, I teased him that the hurricane would gulp him down during his Boston trip. Neither happened and we returned to tell our tales.

On days when I feel far and away from home, I think about these new relationships that have become a part of my London life. Relationships that have become not on the basis of a common culture, race, language or country, but that's emerged out of simple conversations, and day-to-day routines. They tell me they owe me a lot for my contributions, I silently tell them they have no idea what I owe them. For this new perspective, for this renewed learning, for a shared round of coffee in the evenings, and for those simple joyous editorial discussions. I owe them more than a thank you. I have for them a smile.

my word

Okay, so that's it! This blog is tired of being abandoned. I can either leave it to die a slow death or rejuvenate it to bounce back. And since i'm very much pro-life (yo..palin!), I opt for the latter.

From now on, every little thought that is worth being plastered on the mighty walls of the blogosphere, makes an appearance here. Creative writing can take a beating, but my creative thoughts (?) will be treasured right here!

And with that, the rambling begins...

peace will never catch up with you, forget love

A mother speaks softly by the corpse of her young son. A son, barely old enough to talk, calls out to his dead mother and father in their coffin.

A father and a husband is left behind, while the sons and the wife burn alive. A mother, whispers her last few words on the phone, before choking to death. A wife lies in her hospital bed, constantly wondering why her husband has not come to visit her. Deep inside her, she probably knows. Or maybe not.

A daughter stands proud, shedding not a single tear, as her martyred father is consigned to flames. A brother wails, finding his sister at last, bullet-ridden and blood-splattered.

I don't know any of the people mentioned above, but I cry as I watch them and hundreads of others on television. I want to reach out, tell them that like me, many out there feel for them. That we are praying for them. But I'm speechless.

I have questions though. Screaming in my head. Why? What do you, the perpetrator, gain? Power? Or a cursed life? Or both? And for how long will this continue? Do you have the nerve to come and talk? In a language that is accepted, not in the safety of your AK-47.

Does it haunt you, that you have been maledicted by people who don't even know you, but only judge you by your heinous actions? Do you realise how many families you have broken forever? Including, perhaps, some of your own? When your mother gave birth to you, she loved you, cradled you, and prayed for you. When you lay dying, hated by millions around the world, do you wonder if your mother still loves you? Does it scare you, that maybe, she does not? My worry is that you do not care. And if that is what you have been reduced to, then there is no hope for you. You, the terrorist, will only know terror. Within your head, within your heart. In this world, and beyond.

Peace will never catch up with you, forget love.

pic: getty images