many
years ago…
deepu, amma and me
navyug society
raincoats and rainyshoes
and a huge umbrella
little blue and white flowers
i think.
hold on tight
i remember us
walking to school
in knee-deep water
mind the pits
from the rains
three nights long
god alone knows what all is in the water
but we have to go to school
and maybe chitti’s house
after that
only if it’s stopped raining
school bags on our backs
books secured in plastic sheets
the stainless steel spoons
going clattery-clank
in our plastic
blue and white
lunch-dabbas.
then achchan will pick us all up
we’re smiling
rains are welcome
always.
mind that car!
i love the water
pretend the wind
does not like my raincap
but amma slides it back
over my head
do you want to catch a cold!?
deepu’s hiding
in her raincoat
tiny fingers clutching
amma’s hands
and mine.
i catch
the twinkle in her eye
as she secretly
grins
to herself
proud
of her new red
gumboots.

deepu and i are now taller than amma (okay, i’m almost taller), our shoes were given away long ago to someone who needed them more than us, and the raincoats flew out of our wardrobes along with our school uniforms.

yet when i was reading a totally unrelated (and long overdue) email from my big little sister yesterday, this picture of the three of us in the rain seemed to be staring back at me.

my, how much and yet how little we all have changed :’-)

there’s so much happening around me these days, lot of thoughts buzzing around in my head too. strangely i haven’t felt like putting them down on my journal…

perhaps its the return of the blogger’s block, perhaps it isn’t. perhaps i don’t know what to call it and i just don’t feel like writing. for now.

maybe if i list some of the 🙂 and the 🙁 this month, it might help me get back to where i left from…

🙂

very surprised and very happy: one of my BEST friends just got engaged! just like that!
unforgettable: our (just praveen and me) one-day trip to bournemouth, in spite of a chilly-bitey-wet-and-windy day. pictures coming soon
exciting: to be back in touch with a friend from home. mayu, this is you…
welcoming: the change in weather…leaves, sunshine, rains, sunshine, lots of green around
busy: freelancing, and with friends rashmi and zubin at home.
talkative: rashmi, very talkative (:-p)
learning: life, me, in an extended family.
waiting: eagerly for my in-laws visiting mid-may. and for the delicious spices and pickles in amma-in-law’s suitcase 😉
biting: into the yummy donuts zubin gets, almost twice a week!
refreshing: my 20- to 30-minute vipassana sessions before bedtime, every night (since a month now). can’t miss. won’t miss.
amusing: from my window right now, i see a squirrel precariously hanging from a birdhouse, stealing all the nuts inside! someone’s going to complain of a tummyache today!
satisfying: crispy home-grown spinach for breakfast, lunch and dinner!
amazing: outside, a pink and blue twilight sky after a drizzly rainy reminding-me-of-bombay day.

🙁

unforgivable: missed a seat on the creative writing class i was so desperate to join, just by a few hours.
frustrating: my blogger account. something’s wrong, again. which is why i cannot update my just-like-that box.
worried: sars in india. sars worldwide.
painful: waiting for the nhs to grant me an appointment with a doctor for my back.
unfinished: abandoned potential journal entries on my to-post file
touching: email and comments from friendly strangers, ordering me to write.

news is when the truth is reported as it is, and not as one would like it to be.

as i watch the iraq-war updates on tv today, i suddenly seem to recollect this first rule in the one (and only) weekend-journalism workshop i’d attended years ago.

us and uk television media want their countries to believe that the war is the only way to go — for both sides. “removing saddam will be a blessing to the iraqi people…” (blair’s address to the nation). obviously, iraqi media wants their arab population to believe saddam is in the right, and that the us and uk are their enemies, destroying their cities since three nights now.

i’ve been glued to the continuous and ‘live’ bbc and sky telecasts…the first time i’ve been following a real war in all my life.

but the reports surely make me wonder what the other side of the story could be. most of the breaking news and stories deal with the bombing in baghdad and mixed reports here and here, on how some of the iraqi troops are beginning to surrender. they also reported how us troops hoisted the american flag in umm qasr, and replaced it with the iraqi one soon after. …that saddam hussein was possibly injured or in hiding; and of course video footages of a war getting increasingly aggressive…

interestingly, the bbc yesterday also showed iraqi television-clippings of a saddam in perfect health, and a baghdad mercilessly being bombarded by the us and uk forces. another news reader on kuwait tv indicated with relief that saddam’s reign was soon coming to an end. also see “you are late. what took you so long?”

were the reports in the middle east desperate to keep up the spirits of the hiding arabs, telling them their leader was alive and well? were the reports by uk and us media desperate to tell anti-war protestors in their countries how their leaders had made the right decision… “some of the iraqis rejoiced and broke into a song and dance when the coalition reached them…,” indicating that not everyone was happy with the dictator’s rule anyway.

neither of the television media are playing up the facts, they’re all telling the truth. perhaps. but all of them certainly seem to be choosing the truths they want to be told.

i still cannot get over it. perhaps this qualifies me for a creative writing course after all?
i was chatting with my mother and she asked me to try writing a poem for her innerwheel-club event.
the subject, female foeticide…

my first reaction: “i’m not a writer amma! this is such a serious topic”
hers: “at least try na baba”.

well, with no brief or outline of what was expected in the poem, and for a creative five-minute outburst, mine slightly missed the mark. i’ve been asked to try again. but anyways, i thought there was nothing wrong in posting it on my journal. so here it is, my first attempt…

cry of the foetus

amma
i could have
made you smile
wipe the tear
of joy
running down your cheek.

i could
tug at your chain
play with your hair
hide in your bosom
a place only for me
where no one could reach
drink your milk
your strength
make you feel proud…
that you let me be.

i could crawl and play
for as long as you wanted me to
make you dream
of things for me.
i could walk
on your toes
feel your skin
warm and soft
so much better
than floating in
the water here
inside you.

i can’t wait…
to hear
you laugh
when i giggle.
…to see you
see me
hear me talk
make me make
your dreams come true
when you stopped…

amma
give me your little finger
so i can curl all of mine
around yours.
tomorrow
when you’re alone
you’ll still find me
holding your hand
by your side.

i’ll let you dress me
even leave you
to go to school
so i can wear big shoes
one day
and make you proud
that you let me be…

i could marry
the man you choose
and one day
carry
in me
another me
for you.

i could share your secrets
your laughter and your fears
i could bring you
happiness
in whatever form…

at least i could try
if only
at first,
you would
let me cry.

ps: this was intended to be a pattern poem. in my word document it is. too bad i couldn’t get the tabs and spaces in here. i guess i’ll have to wait for praveen to have a look…

pps: something’s wrong with my blogger methinks. can’t get it to update my daily ‘just like that…’ box for some reason 😐

dear mayu,
…i enjoyed writing to you. i hope we continue to keep in touch, and that too only through this old tradition of ‘writing’ a letter.
take care 🙂

there. sealed and waiting for the postman. a little over seven pages.

‘writing’ letters can be such a cathartic experience. especially if it is to someone who’s known you for almost all your growing life.

i think i’m going to *buy* an ink-pen one of these days, and save it along with my letterpads for my grandchildren.
how else will i explain to them what it feels like to collect your thoughts in a writing (-on-paper-) instrument, for a loved one miles away? i wonder if they will ever know what it is like to feel butterfly wings in their stomachs, when waiting for the postman, or experience the quiet magic… around a letter that is on its way to a dear old friend.

“alienation through work

i am closer to you perhaps
but you are always
half an hour
ahead of me now”

–karin kiwus, 1976.
translated from german by christopher middleton.

i have been reading a lot lately. novels, short stories, translations… and this was one poem i just had to share with all readers of entelechy.

among some of the refreshing changes that i saw in this country when i first came here — such as the unending motorway, superstores, roads with pedestrian priorities and huge shopping centres with facilities for the disabled (complete with braille-buttons in elevators, beeping traffic signals, talking newspapers, footpaths that slanted to the road for wheelchairs and many more), toilets with machines that dispensed sanitary napkins, tampons and condoms for a tiny fee, internet booths, pay-and-fill petrol pumps and self-checkout tills… — the (huge!) library is probably one place i would find it difficult to live without.

since they’re owned by the councils, membership is free and based on where you live and what you do for a living. you can sometimes take up to eight books on your (library-) card, and of course, if you don’t renew my books in the given three-weeks’ time (by phone or in person) you pay a fine.

—back home in bombay, libraries are privately-owned, and you need to pay a monthly membership fee when you join one, and a deposit. unless your library is in the city, you might not find a variety of books to choose from, apart from the local magazines or comics. besides, you can keep a book just for a day or two. —

most often, praveen and i rush to the library about 10 minutes before closing time (i wait for him to return from office so he too can select his books), and yet we manage to get an armload of books punched on our way out. he prefers more of the ‘visual’ do-it-yourself, or how-stuff-works, or the-hobbit-in-pictures’ kind of books since he’s who i would call a ‘loo-reader’, while i pick the chitra-bannerji-divakarunis, the helene wiggins’, the jostein gaarders, the isabel allendes, or a mix of short stories because… well, i have all the time in the world! until of course i find that so elusive job i’ve been hunting for 😉

this friday i was on my way out and spotted a rack full of books, about 17 in all, belonging to the same title. now this was unusual, i thought. or perhaps it was owing to a habit i guess most of us living abroad would relate to…of widening your eyes as if to say “oh really? now what could this be about?!” i hurriedly picked up a copy and rushed to the smiling library-attendant, who was cleverly guising her anxiety to get home.

it was only yesterday that i saw the book again, when i needed a break from divakaruni’s prosaic yet engrossing vine of desire. the book is a sequel to sister of my heart, which perhaps is the only divakaruni title i haven’t yet laid my hands on. (for those in india whose grandparents or mothers fight for their space in front of the tv for the suhasini-ratnam-production anbulla snehidiye, the programme is an adaptation of the the same book. i think.)

i digressed. always happens when i read too much of the same author.

coming back to my ‘curios’ pick, it turned out to be a collection of short stories and poems, translated from many languages around the globe. aptly named rearranging the world, the cover had a maps-collage, and it was only when i began to browse through the book that i understood its intentions. a ‘new audiences’ project by the arts council of england, the book was published in collaboration with the british centre for literary translation (bclt) to develop new readerships for literature. interesting. (more about the book here)

looking closer, the ‘maps’ occurring on the cover and through the book, were actually pieces from loius van swaaij and jean klare’s atlas of experience…where fictitious areas are marked by themes from life…birth (true nature), youth, marriage, and so on. the literary translations (from various cultures) in turn represent these themes. for example, the poem above was from the ‘marriage and family life’ theme.

as with any short-story-collection book that i have laid my hands on, i quickly leafed through the poems and the anecdotes (and skipped the stories for later), when i suddenly realised i was perhaps absent-mindedly looking for pieces by indian writers. i shrugged when i couldn’t find any, this must be a european-only collection, and went on to read the introduction, another habit with books.

two pages later, between the preface and just before the book began with the ‘birth’ theme, i found a single page with two bright stanzas that compelled you to read. the poem had no title, and far below, in bold type and italicised was the text… “translated by joe winters, from ‘song offerings’ by rabindranath tagore.

oh i’m soooo proud to be an indian! 🙂

i’m not a great michael jackson fan. no, i’m not a michael jackson fan at all. if i happen to spot jackson at a concert i will not run to him for a hug that would squeeze tears from my eyes…no, forget i said that. i don’t ever imagine myself to be attending any of his concerts in the first place.

i would barely be able to locate a jackson-number on a compiled list of the top-100-hits and i guess the one tune i truly remember is you are not alone. i also remember the very dazzling videos of remember the time, and the scary thriller terrorised my childhood…putting me miles away from horror movies for the rest of my life.

perhaps that’s why, i have a detached viewpoint about all issues jackson. and i know when i have to like him, or dislike him, and i know when something is unfair.

as far as i can recollect, he’s been around in all our lives …either singing on tv, giving live performances, in an audio cd or tape, on a colleague’s computer at office or in the car, and of course, when he’s not singing, he’s in the headlines. i’ve also observed that before every tv performance, every public appearance or tv interview, arrives a huge aura of hype. like the deeply irritating bzzzzz of a housefly on a solitary afternoon that just knows there’s food around somewhere, the media seems to sniff, hover and cling on to almost anything the chap does, and turns it into a big issue. in one word i would call this fly the type of nosey journalist who thrives on sensationalism.

i was among the 14 million who watched the much-talked about michael jackson interview this monday, and right from the beginning martin bashir fit the description of the journalist i just talked about above.

for eight months bashir hovered around jackson, and his interview with the pop star clearly shows how he clings on to to any sentence that might create ripples of interest or provoke controversy among the media. note, i said media, and not the ‘public’. i am positive even the public saw how the journalist literally nagged jackson with his questions and went on and on about how he was not satisfied with the answers. because he didn’t get what he wanted to hear? or did he?

sure enough, bashir’s efforts brought itv a £3-million advertising revenue for a single 90-min programme. and a further £3.5 million when the rights of the programme were sold to the us network abc. full- and quarter page itv ads in the guardian on that day screamed with questions like “why did you dangle your child from the balcony?”, and “do your children get to meet their mothers?”…making sure even a person like me who’s not so fond of the 21-inch-idiot-box sit up and make a mental note of the time the show was to be broadcast.

the interview

michael jackson, three questions, eight months, martin bashir and a 90-minute interview.

that was all there was to it. like a chewing gum that you chomp and chew till every essence of the flavour is reduced and disappears, the three questions were thrown at michael again and again and again in every possible form and place. they were the main issues of his “changing face”, his relationship with his children, and his relationship with other’s children.

initially, i felt it was all laughable. the way bashir was allowed access to the star’s children, to his neverland ranch, the shopping trip at las vegas…while all the time he seemed so skeptical about the very answers he had been digging for. in one article published before the programme was broadcast, bashir said he was “disturbed” by what he saw and heard, and that michael jackson has all the financial ability to do what he wants, when he wants. well, i don’t see why not. whose money is he spending anyway?

i’m not sure if i’m using a harsh word here, but bashir seemed very much a hypocrite. he misused jackson’s trust to portray and magnify the mystery that was michael jackson. why, just half-way through the programme, most viewers would have wondered why michael is letting this happen to him. how could he not even suspect, in the eight months, that this reporter can easily turn his story around?

in the last 20 minutes of the interview, bashir tells the viewers that he’s finally decided to “confront” jackson again, for the “real truth”. in the grilling session that followed, a very visibly upset jackson repeats the same answers again…that he had an unhappy childhood, that he really has not changed the shape of his face and lips, that he does not see what is wrong with sharing a little love, and with sleeping with children.

bashir pounced on the last statement at once. very predictably, its echoes will be heard on every news bulletin, radio and paper for weeks, till the media finally gets tired of it.

perhaps jackson was born in the wrong country.

had it been india, where families are so emotionally bound by love and care that it is perfectly normal for children to sleep with their parents in the same room if they so wished; where lunchboxes carry hot home-cooked rotisabji or dalchawal in them, and not cold sandwiches, fries, crisps or salad and pizza from the nearest superstore; where parents still find it hard to let go of their grown-up children who want to study further or work away from home; and where grandparents don’t understand why children these days need a separate room for themselves…in a country where friends get together to sleep over dinner, gupshup and movies — in a single room, it would be martin bashir’s turn to be questioned: so what?

where we lived, ramji’s shop was just around the corner.

it was a very noisy place, and his workers smoked beedis while they went about their jobs. they seemed bound by a silent sort of unity, almost self-disciplined with vests yellowing due to sweat and dust. they had lunch and tea breaks like everyone else, and occasionally when they laughed you’d spot a gold tooth in their paan-and-tobacco-stained mouth. on a hook by the shop-entrance, they hung their clean shirts before they began work. at the end of the day they wore them on and went home. they spoke in a language you would perhaps understand if you were from their region in central india, sometimes they spoke hindi to make it easier for you. but ramji, he could even understand english. secretly, i think he could even speak it well. because it helped him in his business, and of course he’d know best when to use the language.

you’d be told to be careful if you wanted to step into his shop, and almost always, you’d hear a distinct “hanzi sahabzi!” (meaning a respectful way of saying ‘yes sir, here i come sir!’) over the noise around you, with ramji himself rushing out to meet you. his desk would be cluttered with some rough line-drawings, playing-card-size pieces of coloured plywood, and sometimes a calculator. when he was not with a client, most often you’d find a pencil stuck behind his ear, and a naked 40-watt bulb oscillating over his table. even during daytime, his shop was not very bright, which is why his workers sometimes had to take their work outside. the neighbouring shops — a library, an STD/PCO-cum-photocopier, a pharmacy — did not seem to mind though…after all, they too were hard-working people.

everyone was happy with his work, and even if there were any complaints, ramji saw that it was taken care of at the earliest. when it came to collecting his fees for the job, he sometimes quoted a higher price, almost shy, but humbly stating why. when his clients bargained, he then lowered his quote to please them a little. but this was, mind you, only if he liked the particular client too, and if he was certain the latter would return to him.

…like my father. achchan often brought ramji home if he wanted to have something made. most often, ramji would also have an appointment with someone else in our four-storey society. that way, he was a busy man. sometimes he’d send his worker ahead, and my sister and i would inspect his tools. if the work lasted for days, we’d often pry open the toolbag in the evening after he left, saw an imaginary piece of wood, and pretend to be a carpenter like him.

this sunday, i finally got to be one myself!

our kitchen needed a new floor since the old vinyl tiles seemed to be coming apart… and praveen‘s earnest efforts to put them back with some vinyl-glue only worsened the mess.

both of us had always wanted to have a wooden floor to go with our indian tastes (the english carpeted floors only seem restricting to me, because every other furniture in the room then depends on the colour of the carpet). besides, wood proved to be a more neutral base too.

thanks to the impending house-prices crash, last week we almost decided to sell our home. we’d settle all our loans, make all the profit we could accumulate if that is, it wasn’t too late yet, shift into a rented accommodation, and then wait for the prices to really come down again, before we bought another house again.

selling a house you’re just growing fond of is not easy though, and while we waited to arrive at a final decision, we thought it was the best time to re-do the kitchen. we discovered it was indeed the best time, because the stores were offering a massive discount on wooden laminates.

had it been india perhaps i would have instantly turned to ramji to have them installed. but in a nation of d.i.y, we thought we’d do like the britons too. it was fun…

–>it took us two visits to the store just to understand what we really required, and how much.
–>once home, i had to clean the floor thoroughly and make sure the old tile corners were not sticking out.
–>next, we laid the (foam) underlay across the entire floor…this would level the floor in normal cases for the laminates that would follow on top (i say ‘normal’ because ours is the most uneven floor i’ve ever walked on)
–>we laid the wood laminates next to each other and snap! interlocked them with each other, just like that.
–>and now for the final skirting to cover the sides of the floor…

sometime after we began, we got stuck.

it took us over five and a half hours of installing, hammering it into place, removing and then re-installing, vertically, horizontally, to figure out something was not right. the laminates were about a metre-long each…and laying them continuously on our already uneven floor, prevented them from locking into each other. after a while, praveen suddenly laughed “pure physics”! he then decided to saw the laminates in half… this was to ‘stagger’ them at alternate rows, and soon they began to click into place again. i was told i really wasn’t any help in fitting the pieces since they required strength. hmph!

after a hot coffee and dosa break, i looked around for other interesting things to do. praveen let me try sawing the laminates, and it wasn’t bad at all! i thought of how my sister too would love to have a go at this, and how once i pleaded and took a brush from one of the painters in our house when my mom was not looking, and managed to paint half a wall without being caught!

i wondered if we really have to be so dependent on labour in india. of course, people like ramji and the others would do a better job, but why not try doing stuff ourselves, at least once?

not long ago at my previous job, i’d seen an ex-colleague take a futon apart as though it were a piece of cardboard. i was amazed at how easily she could manipulate it as if she had been doing it all her life, and now i could see why.

another european culture: d.i.y

why? perhaps because labour is too expensive in european countries. besides, india’s large population demands employment in the form of ‘private’ carpenters, painters, plumbers, electricians and the like.

diy culture in europe is encouraged by stores like b&q, wickes, homebase and others. and also by lifestyle television programmes like housecall, home front, and changing rooms, where the tv crew enters a house that requires a serious facelift, and with simple tools and props lying around the house, show the viewers how easy it is to do it themselves too. (more)

in fact, there is also a programme for some of those diy disasters. which means it is really okay if you do happen to go wrong!

our kitchen experiment was very satisfying. we were working together as family, for our own home. we also took turns working, which was fun…even now as i write this i’m waiting for the wood-glue to get working on the ‘skirting’, so i can fix it all around the room. the initial hiccups we faced also made us confident in some way, because as we discovered, the solution was in the problem itself.

when i searched the web later, i couldn’t find similar diy stores in india that could perhaps help people think of how they can create furniture projects for their homes themselves, without having to pay the ramjis of the area through their nose.

what i did come across though, told me that the day is not too far off either…

“nothing about her has changed…see, even after all these years she’s run to draw water from the well as soon as she stepped in.”

she didn’t forget.

–the time we stole away from our mother’s eyes and scampered off into the fields to the little rock where we played ‘house-house’, or simply stared out and waited to be caught;

–the mounds of hay in the backyard on which we jumped and pounced, and often, limped back to our mothers to pull out a thorn or two from our feet.

–the stone stoves in the kitchen that required lot of dry fuel and how i’d insist on blowing into it through the clay pipe, only to end up coughing smoke and ash.

–the narrow cowdung-washed corridor leading to the pond…on which i never used to tire of running barefeet, to and fro and to and fro, even under a scorching sun. and the flowers we made rings from and pretended to be princesses.

–the high old black wood blocks that formed the kitchen ceiling, and the black cat that walked across it on the night of the powercut, and how it still gives me nightmares.

–the endless meals at the endless houses, and how i always ate so little “like a bird”.

–the day we all wore sarees and swayed to the ‘only vimal’ tune, only to realise to our horror, that one of our sarees got the tablefan swaying to our tune too! and of course, the unforgettable spanking we all received that afternoon.

–the little wooden almirah from which my little cousin and i stole milk powder, and never managed to gulp a spoonful without spraying it all over our faces, giving us away.

–how i tried and tried every time to peep into the padijnaar arra dreaming of hidden treasure until she would shake her head and get me a torch, and narrate tales of all that happened that harvest season; and though i never could grasp much of what she said, i would press her to go on with questions…

there have always been at least ten of us or more visiting her at any given time, and still, my achchamma did not forget.

i did.

nine years flew by. all that i remembered of mundakottakurisi was the beautiful house, the villagers who blindly believed a dreadful manthravadi, and how thankful i was to be born and brought up in bombay.

———————–

amidst our rather rushed schedules in india last week, praveen and i managed to squeeze in an hour for my grandmother. no sooner had i reached the house and taken off my sandals, that i found myself running across the long corridor to the kitchen, to draw water from the well again. i was giggling at my own childishness. a little disappointed though, that most of the kitchen flooring, and the stone stoves were refitted with gleaming pastel green tiles and a gas stove, “for more convenience.”

suddenly every passing minute in the house seemed to fill me with a rush of memory i did not anticipate…here i learnt to separate a coconut from its shell, here is where we pretended to sleep and told ghost stories, here is where the saree got stuck in the fan, here is where i tried milking the cow…i showed praveen all around, excited to be back home.

running along barefeet on the cowdung washed path again to the pond, i wondered where all these memories were bottled away for so many years…

i reached the steps from where i would survey the fields, hands on my hips, waiting for a familiar face, or mischief. there i spotted the pit where my sister had fallen in and had begun to wail while we laughed, and then the little rock we used to run to. i also saw the route that led to the manthravadi’s house. i smiled. it’s all forgiven now, i thought, how angry and hurt i’d been then…

it was not necessary.

they thought it was about time i got married. but the panicker (traditional astrologer) said ‘no’. he drew some squares on the floor, and determined i was afraid. that i should stay away from water. that i was too much of a rebel. also, that i was blessed. so they took me to the manthravadi to flush the deep-rooted fear and anger out of me.

when my little cousin told me rather naively “chechi, everyone who go to him collapse at the end of the session, you too will…” i did not believe him. i trusted reason over religion, and i guess that’s how i knew why. with not a lot of road lights around the fields, houses deeper inside like this one are almost eerie in the pitch darkness, add to it the crimson-red pieces of cloth swaying in the breeze, and the white-bearded manthravadi’s harsh voice shouting incantations that even the dense sambrani (strong incense) fumes could not drown. we were seated on the cold stone floor and another grid of rice-sprinkled squares lay between the black magician and me. at intervals, he seemed charged by some inner force, and then he would throw sharp paddy grains on my face, little bruises from which were to last for over a week. about an hour later when my feet were almost dead with lack of blood circulation, one of his assistants got a black hen they would later sacrifice….

i looked around for answers, angry, almost humiliated, but when i saw the helpless look in my mother’s eyes, i grew up. had my cousin been a few years older, i would explain to him that i did not collapse because i was not afraid. and that no one should be. looking back today, i realise that somehow the incident had indeed made me stronger.

on the train back to bombay that year, i flung away the silver amulet that the black magician had asked me to wear, and along with it my memories of mundakottukurisi. and then i promised myself “i will never come back again.”

———————–

my aunt’s call for tea and unniappam, and achchamma’s voice brought me back to the fields i was staring at. it wasn’t necessary, i argued with myself again. anyways, with or without that episode in my life things had turned out for the best, and i was very happy with praveen. suddenly i knew why i was there…i had to erase the anger from my heart, and my promise. mundakottukurisi was a storehouse of my childhood memories.

i had to come back.

as i sighed and hopped back over the steps as i used to before, i heard grandma tell praveen “she grew up running among the trees and the fields here… but see, even after all these years, my child hasn’t changed at all!”

i felt a painful lump in my throat as i swallowed a tear.
no achchamme, this time, you forgot…