Monday morning rules

She lay there on the bed. The tiny metal clock by her bed read 3.50a.m. This was probably amongst the very few times when she woke up that early by herself, without the help of an alarm and a million clicks on the 'snooze' button. Nightmares do that to you. They can make you sweat when you are trying to find warmth under a quit on a cold morning. She lay there on the bed till 6.30a.m. Tears rolling down, by the side of her eyes.

Mom walked into her room like she did every morning. Switched off the fan, opened the windows and drew the curtains. On an average day, she would wake up annoyed at mom, but today was different. She had never been as happy to see mom do what annoys her the most. Mom, continuing the usual ritual asked her to wake up for college, in the usual tone. She asked mom to let her be for a while and said she'd be up in sometime. Mom knew her tricks, the Monday morning nightmares of not wanting to go to college. That was probably because she pretended to be ill every Monday morning and if she planned things well enough, even Sunday night. She continued to lay on the bed resting her head on the soggy pillow.

The clock struck 7.15 and the angry mother strutted into the room and ranting endlessly about her lack of commitment towards anything. She got up, annoyed that the requirement of space was hardly addressed and asked her mom to let her be . Not being able to take her tantrums anymore the distressed mother, convinced that the daughter was making up the story questioned as to what could she have possibly dreamt for her to behave this way. She couldn't take it anymore and screamed back at her mom exclaiming, "try waking up one morning after dreaming that you killed your mother, you'll know." She wished she hadn't told her mom because she knew either her mom wouldn't believe her or would end up saying "Oh now you want to kill me. Dreams are unfulfilled desires, you know." Well she did know her mom well, the latter happened.

Apparently one can't wake up having nightmares on Monday mornings. Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays accommodate comforting, but not Mondays. Never Mondays.

Coconut Full Of Sunshine

It wasn't too long ago when I was a little girl who strutted up and down the stairs of a temple that our family visited often, during our stay in Trivandrum. That place fascinated me, it was not the the crowd that outnumbered its own records or people who took turns on their backs around the temple or the peacocks and peahens that perched on the low branches of trees that surrounded the temple. What fascinated me were the coconuts. Yes the coconuts!

They were filled in huge jute sacks probably in counts of thousands and were broken as an offering to ones favorite deity, the fat belly Ganesha. The questions that lingered in my mind was never attended to, let alone be solved. It resparked my senses again, quite recently. Now coming back to the question- What can a God do with coconuts?! In a solution that one usually expects from god.. If you offer him money, he wouldprobably give it to the poor.. If you offer food then he would feed the hungry.. But why the coconuts and why in such a large number..?

(shift scene)

Mom has been cooking ever since I can remember seeing her, so thats a real long time. Whenever we'd complain of an averagely cooked meal, she'd conveniently blame the coconuts.

"You grate the coconuts, and i'll make the tastiest curries. Grating is hard for me, its a lot of effort" (yeah that would probably be because she has a belly as big as that of Ganesha's -i love you mom).

In the kind of food that our cuisine offers, a huge amount of taste and flavour is contributed by the products and by-products of coconuts, so that accounts to a lot of coconut usuage. Till date, my mom's story continues to hold position .

Why the coconuts?! Why them always? Haven't we Mallus faced enough ridicule with relation to coconuts already? Not that being Mallu means any lesser than being a Gujju or even a Tamilian amongst others. Infact I'm quite shamelessly proud of being Mallu. That is not even the point. The point is -

Mom wants coconuts-grated.

Gods want coconuts-broken.

Christine wants coconuts-(she knows why).

Alfy wants coconuts-so that he can remind me time and again that I'm a mallu.

My sister wants coconut shells-so that they can be painted in gold and can be hung, all around Ranga Shankara.

Shruti wants coconuts-well Shruti wants everything :P

P.T Usha wants coconuts-so that she can endorse tender coconut water.

My dad wants a coconut tree-so that we can be self sustained.

Its all about the coconut. You can please anyone with it, even P.T Usha.

Go fetch.

Rs.8- Rs.12 (depending on size).

Coming to all stores near you.

(The point is that i still don't know the answer)

A Sari To Petticoat Experience :)

It came as a surprise to me when the usually mundane looking Google chrome that displays the recently visited pages had an absolutely new looking page at the right corner. Unaware of what lay in store for me, i went ahead and decided to find out. You know that feeling that one thinks one would feel when you'd see your kid taking his/her first few strides? I felt exactly the same except, I don't have a child. Child is the father of man came true for me in an unconventional feminine way. My mother created her very own blog. There thats my little girl, who struts about the house in cute fancy looking clothes with a constantly creased forehead, showing me how its done. Its not too often that you consider a mom with a nice big warm belly with a brilliant temper in this manner and in my case it is as rare as refusing to eat a pie.

I remember the number of times she asked me to show her how to create a blog. But for me Facebooking and texting was of utmost importance, although, i did try to teach -once. Well, what can i say, I'm not really a woman with patience. Not only has she managed to tell me that she can do stuff without me (repeatedly, time and again) but also left with a confident claim, "Mine will be amongst the most famous blogs, you'll see."

All i have to say is, Mom, I'm really proud of you.

http://ammafundas.blogspot.com/

Please do check out my moms blog. She's a rockstar. Read and you'll know.

Broken By A Ring

He stood there by the window, the pane held the rain from hitting him while tears rolled down his eyes even though he tried to hold them back. He turned around and asked her, "Why cant you tell me? Speak to me this once.. Please.. You will have to speak, I've tried to understand silence long enough, it stopped making sense anymore". She just sat on the cushion holding the shiny silk pillow, not a sign of emotion on her face, so much that she seemed cruel like a sinister spirit consumed the better off her. He got on his knees, his hands on her shoulder held her affectionately, trying to break the shield she had built around herself, tears continued to trickle down his face, "talk to me.. just talk to me, i barely even know you anymore just talk to me.. i promise to understand.. but just talk..". She just dint move, her face had grown pale and tears filled her eyes and the only thing it reflected was the color of the pillow that she held, but not a word spoken. His frustration in not having a clue about whats running through her head was visible on his face. The gentleness of his hands got over powered by his frustration and he quivered her by her shoulder for the next few minutes, like she just gasped her last breath and he was struggling to bring her back to life. He pleaded, "talk to me please.. I'm going mad.. just talk.. say something." Even the level headed lost calm, he thew his arms apart almost as though repulsed by her energy and dug his hands into his face and just collapsed in one corner. All that was heard was the sound of the ring that disengaged from his finger, hitting the wall, swiveling about its axis. Both of them looked at the ring while it slowed in pace, finally lost momentum and settled. His world fell apart. He dint intend to but the broke the bond unknowingly. And all she did was stare.

Fundamentals of Chemistry.

I vividly remember that class. We learnt of ways by which one can prevent iron from corrosion. Examples of corrosion were in plenty but its explication intrigued me. I hope you could see what i saw that day and not forget it.

Science has it that iron can be prevented from corrosion by means of painting the surface and greasing amongst other processes. Basically what it does is form a barrier between the core and the exposed air.

'Far beyond the sight can see

There are folds to one the hand can't feel.

A protective layer thats laid on top

Opposite to whats beneath the clad atop '

Usually the coating is of a stronger and stable composition in comparison to the vulnerable inside, therefore the external view of the contraption is unlike the internal component. However the exterior is secondary and infact inconsequential to the inner function. The peripheral in opposition is to face the factors that are otherwise, unsuitable and susceptible to the functioning of the core.

As much as all this sounds immaterial, I could relate, because it felt like science for the very first time had a meaning. Like science got a part of me that no human could, it felt good.

Feeling all 'figured-out', I walked out of the class for lunch, indulging in deep conversations with my friends about meaningless trivial things. The life of a fresh teen was full of stuff to talk about, nothing was unimportant, especially boys. Anyway all preoccupied with 'conversations' I saw an old tap from where the kids washed hands after lunch and said "What a disgusting color to paint. How can even someone look at it. Yuck" and walked away to which the party giggled and sanctioned approval.

Its hard to be understood when its hard to understand.

Bullet for a rover..

On a bright cloudy day,

The dark sunshine takes over.

Dark light falls upon a shiny stain,

Bringing to light the existence of a rover.

A hunch on the back, a huge pile of notes,

The only thing left, worth taking home.

A bullet on the chest, the 'shiny' spot,

Tears of sweat heals dry open scars.

Blisters get formed by frictional distraught,

And his chest bleeds something luminous dark.

Dark light continues to fall upon the shiny stain,

Bringing to light, an existing rover in pain.

'I don't want this bullet, I don't want a shiny stain,

Am leaving behind my notes, for now i want to walk straight.

Care I not- if you care or not, Young man,

I'm a rover, I fell, I cried, it hurt, yet I still stand.

I leave..

When the world seems to fall apart,

And you seem to be living on the side of dark.

When the faith mustered melts as ice,

And all things wrong start seeming nice.

Is when I think of my final day

When I'd be freed from my pain and dismay.

I see myself in a wooden box,

Some place I'd like to be, I thought.

People are around, no sign of tears,

No tissues, no memories, no fears.

Wearing big smiles and in the latest couture,

Men and women come to see me go.

Safely tucked inside the walls of a coffin,

Overwhelmed by the comforts of the expensive satin.

A tiny black box, well carved, looking good,

Silver plating on the edges perhaps,

If I could afford a fortune as much, I would.

In style I'd be sent to a place unknown,

Who'd care where I'd go as long as I'm gone.

Buried or burnt which would be the task?

Cover me up with logs of wood,

To make sure even the last glimpse of me wouldn't be seen,

Even if it would.

Dug so deep I'd be, even my cries would stifle,

Lit on fire to see the last bright side of me.

A tear shed perhaps, due to the toxic smoke,

No one would have anything to say, not a single bloke.

'Who cares? She's gone, get on with life, move on,

Every year, same day, if I remember perhaps,

I'll think of her, else who cares, she's past.'

I'll be gone and in 10 years from that day,

I'll remain to be just a photo that one might put on their profile today.

Lessons

She was not the kind whose face would be lost in crowd. Striking, very striking. The colours she wore, the small twinkle in her eye, the dark blush on her cheeks, the scarlet red lipstick. Maybe thats why there was a kind of remorse on her face because she was so hard to miss. When I looked at her I could see that the make-up was to cover the blemishes she felt inside because on the surface she had nothing to mask. She would have probably been the only beautiful girl at her age who hoped she wasn't. In her line of work, it was more of a bane. She'd rather have died of starvation had it not been for that little girl who held on to the end of her sari with her dear life. Her sister's daughter who seemed to have got her features from her aunt, was her only motive.

Why here? Why this? I asked her. I had just been a mere acquaintance to her but the story that followed the question only highlighted her desperation for a steady shoulder to cry upon. Her story was sad and just as pathetic as anyone else from her clan but what affected most was her concluding statement, 'I'm cursed'. I stood still, not knowing how to react, hoping for the heavens to open up and give me some clue as to what I should do or say to comfort her. After no divine intervention, I decided to do the best I could, leave. So I pat her on her shoulder and got up to leave. Despite my unsatisfactory promptness in being able to comfort her, she hurriedly came and hugged me before could fade from her sight. I felt the tears of pain drench my shoulder, but thats all that I could do, get drenched in her pain. As I held her I realised that the soft skin that had been abused time and again only hoped for a concerned touch in the place of the licentious ones. Right then, a tiny hand held her by her waist, she wiped the tears off her face, replaced it with a lustrous smile and turned toward her niece. Took her in her arms, kissed her on the cheek, smiled at me as she walked away.

I took a taxi back home that night My enraged mom welcomed me by opening the door yelling at me while pointing toward the clock. Thats when it all fell into place, its all a sacrifice. A willingly offered sacrifice. A sacrifice that passes down through generations, one of love. A relinquishment of one's own life in the quest of a better one for the ones who belong to you. Letting go of all that things that one 'could have been' so that the other 'can be' anything they want to be. Thats when I really understood my mom.