Memories of a short-lived conversation

When does something become yours?
When you talk to her?
When you hold imaginary conversations with her when she is within?
When you weave future memories in absentia?
When you internalise your motherhood even before you deliver?
When you dream of holding tiny hands and walking around the block?
When you await the smell and smile and imagine them?
When you talk of grandparents and books and music ---

Alas! The memories of a short-lived conversation cuts through my being
Someone who should have been born is gone
~ Anne Sexton

P. S.:- Written for a dear friend S. 

The dog with the bell

Today while I was in our car, my thoughts, without any whim or fancy flew to the days I used to know a guy and his dog with the bell. The dog's name was Bobby and it had a bell on its neck. As the dog walked, the bell chimed and it was like a signal - Bobby and X have arrived! Ah! that there was a special connection between the dog's owner and the writer is immaterial here. Aw! Did I just say that! Ah! well, I just did. I would be having dinner, when the rhythmic sound of Bobby's bell would announce their arrival. I would then squirm, try and hurry my dinner, and jump into the road to join the walkers. Our post-dinner rendezvous punctuated by Bobby's bell. Bobby was a smart dog - he knew the places of affection and love and was a silent spectator to the laughs and undercurrents.

He would walk, sometimes run after spotting a nocturnal creature or find his favourite tree and pee. I knew he looked forward to those walks like us. He was the excuse for our walks and we were the reason for his walks - it was a mutual understanding.

I wonder where Bobby is. I suspect he has passed away and would have found many similar companions to walk with while tinkling his wee bell. I also wonder what happened to that bell. Perhaps it was buried with Bobby or it was just discarded now that there is no much use for the same. As for the owner of Bobby, I guess he is out there doing his own thing and probably owning another paw to take care but I guess he won't need the bell because he is now married with children and he does not have the need to alert someone of his presence. Maybe he might be wearing that bell as a talisman or as a signal to alert his family of his arrival from work, gym, church or just the corner shop.

Memories, very funny, aren't they?

Hope you are revelling in the season of fun and joy.

What are your childhood memories of Christmas?

  

December

December has always been a lovely month for me. It is an amalgam of many sweet things, like, the chilly evenings and mornings, the Christmasy feel in the air, a sense of new beginnings and many others. The image of December that first comes to my mind is the delicate flower of either white, yellow, purple or pink that blooms during this month. Many women in Tamil Nadu string these flowers to adorn their hair. Once when I happened to look out of window here in Goa, I spotted many white December flowers. For few seconds, I wondered whether I was at home or in Goa. These flowers start blooming by mid-November and are sighted till mid-January, till the winter has packed its bags and left, giving way to spring and pongal.

This December and last has added a new set of memories for me to associate with this month - the floods of 2015 and the deaths of 2016. While the chilly evenings still remain, the thoughts are punctuated by the knowledge that people who were part of our collective memory are no longer alive. It will be quite strange when I go home in Chennai with the knowledge that our Chief Minister is no longer there. Sometimes, when bad news of home is heard when one is miles away from home, I guess the impact is slightly deeper. On hindsight, the emotional outburst at the loss of someone who I was not quite familiar with, seems a bit strange, December will always remind me of 'Amma.'

December also brings many other memories of songs, music and imaginations. But then I blame the nip in the air for those melancholic thoughts. Sometimes melancholy is sweeter than joy; The knowledge that the melancholia was once a lovely page of memory brings sweet joy.

Ah!

"All in the saddle we spend Christmas Day, / Driving the cattle over snow covered plains. / All of the good gifts given today, / Ours is the sky and the wide open range.…"

I wish I had known - A tribute to Steveroni (1933-2015)

One reason why I haven't shut my blog is that I have my treasure trove of memories in the posts, comments and pictures. That I have not been frequenting here is another story by itself but today, I wish to record the absence of one such peep whose sad demise was unknown to me until two days ago.

My beloved Steveroni.

From the time, I began blogging, he has been a regular peep who popped lovely, funny, insightful and genuine comments every now and then. We then connected beyond blogs and started communicating through emails and then Facebook. He used to blog in The Fourth Dimension and now and then I visited his blog as well. But those memories belonged to my active years of blogging, which were between 2008 and 2012. The posts were intermittent but we always managed to keep in touch. He last commented on my blog on 07/02/2015. How I wish I had blogged regularly so that I would have somehow known that the silence from Steve meant that he had transitioned.

This irks me about the online world, that some things are never known. Perhaps people might miss the posts and wonder but some would never know. How strange it is to realise that the happy and vibrant Steve would never ever comment on my Facebook posts or my blog posts!

Perusing his Facebook profile and comments, I got to know that Steve has passed on to the other world in September 2015 and a year later, I start wondering and get the news. I also think what I would have done if I had known earlier?

I would've not awaited his comments on my posts on Facebook.
I would've not checked my mailbox for a reply for the mail that I had written to him.
I would've not awaited his posts on my posts.

This is the second peep that I have lost from my blogging circle. And, to think that I have not even met him makes me melancholic. I wonder how many friends are still in the dark about Steve awaiting his comments and words of wisdom.

I will miss you dear Fiddleman - Hope we meet somewhere there. Until then, be well and spread cheer - which you have taught us to do.

An excerpt from one of his mails to me:

Do you know? I had a strong feeling that your life was changing for a month or two. You 'writings' had changed. Finally, that "JOY" you wish us all seemed to have found its place in YOUR soul. You can see I wish you the best--even writing TWO replies. (I always over-do emails and posts--grin!)
PEACE
S

The forgotten bucket list

Way back in 2010, having bucket lists and ticking off items from that list was something everyone was doing. I am guessing that people still do it. Many blogs I had then followed had these fascinating lists and also encouraged others to have a list. I did make a list and labelled it "101 Things to Do Before I Die." Those days, I was a passionate being, quite restive and found a thirst for many diverse things/activities for me and my family. Later I even ticked off certain items with a smug feeling. For a long time now, I had forgotten that I had a list like that. Today, while rummaging my Google mail folders, I saw a label titled, "101 . . . " and felt nothing; There was no desire to do those things listed there and what I once saw as fascinating, did not evoke any vigour in me. I think somewhere down the line, I just stopped imagining that I needed the urge to experience certain things.

I would not say that I have lost my zest for life and living but I have let go of that hot pursuit of experience that I needed to possess before I die. Perhaps I have learnt the art of acceptance - the acceptance that if something has to absolutely cross my path, it will! In 2010, I was a different person - scarred by certain life-changing episodes and learning to cope with crises and hence I was desperately looking for a purpose, maybe to keep me distracted and busy and the bucket list seemed a fantastic placebo. But then as I began healing within and life started in full force - I forgot the bucket list.

Getting married, finding a job and engaging with every single day with complete focus and concentration has somehow left me with little time for bucket lists. Today, the list makes me smile and wonder about the diverse things that I wanted to do sooner or later. I still want to do some of those things but I have no urgency - I will do it when I do it but never do it for the sake of doing it or striking an item off my list.

That said and done, I am in admiration of people who draw a list, patiently tick the items off and experience new levels of adrenaline rush. They remind me of me when I was down in the dumps and full of energy for something purposeful and fun.

Sometimes, only sometimes, I wish I could have the same gush of excitement as I had when I was eagerly drawing up a list to tick off. Ah, well . . .

Watching Kabali in Goa

I cannot say that I am a fan of the Superstar Rajinikanth but I like to join in the excitement that surrounds him and his films. Having been in Chennai for the better part of my life, a Rajini release did not incite any excitement in me. I did have friends and acquaintances who went insane over tickets and detailed planning on first day, first show matters but I remained aloof from all of them.

Then marriage happened.

Along with marriage, change of location happened.

Then Rajinikanth became one of the synonyms for home and Chennai.

It is always said and largely believed that one starts craving for home in different ways, some of which are quite unusual and one of those was Rajini. Heaping praise for the superstar and getting a high talking about him were aspects of me that baffled me. Very easily, I could turn from a demure teacher to a crazed fan of the Superstar when my students criticised him. I was always a fan of good acting and films that were close to reality. But Rajini was beyond the circumference of my usual like of films. He is a phenomenon worth studying - a vortex that one gets pulled into willingly.

But for the first time catching a Rajini film after two days of its release was something I did not expect that I would end up doing (I guess earning and having one's one own money in addition to living out of Chennai does that!) I JUST WATCHED A RAJINI FILM YESTERDAY!

Watching Kabali was an entirely different experience in Goa. The theatre was housefull (what else!) and almost the entire hall was filled with Tamil speaking people. It was definitely a joy to behold Tamil Nadu in Goa! But alas! my joy was short-lived because many of the Tamils here were only Tamils by birth and not spirit. The children were not as fluent in the language and hardly knew the charisma and wonder of Rajini. They sat there placid and unmoved while I was jumping and hooting in glee. I was quite sad that I was not able to whistle otherwise I would have shrieked with full power. The claps and hooting were only present when Rajini first made an appearance in the film after which the spirit slowly ebbed away. I was quite excited and beside myself and could hardly contain myself whenever the superstar crossed his leg or uttered, "Magizhchi," (translated joy) but everyone around me were unmoved.

For me Rajini is not Rajini but my years of growing up in Chennai, my memories of school, sightings of huge cutouts of superstar when any of his films were released, friends bunking classes to watch first day first show of Rajini's films - In short HOME. Home means many things to me but on this occasion, home was Rajinikanth and Chennai. This explains why I was a bit low when I did not spot any cutouts, life-size posters or any merchandise of the superstar - In Goa and for Goa, Kabali was just another film (from South India). I went to watch the film not because it was a Rajini film (I also watched Mani Rathnam's O Kadhal Kanmani on the second day of its release) but because I wanted to vicariously experience the spirit of my growing up years and memories of distant teenage.

Needless to say, I enjoyed the film - the complete package with popcorn, hooting, clapping, standing up and applauding the man and also shedding copious tears when the superstar misses his wife whom he assumes to be dead.

Thalaivar - magizhchi!

One aspect of Chennai that I would like to change

This post is part of the blog tag titled, The CBC Tablog - 2, where CBC stands for Chennai Bloggers Club. About 30 bloggers from Chennai are participating in this blog tag where everyone will write about their favourite city Chennai and what aspect of the city that they would like to change. So here's my post for the CBC tablog - 2 titled, 'What Aspect of Chennai that I Would Like to Change.'


Every city has its own charms and challenges and Chennai (Madras) is not an exception. As much as I like the city, there are many aspects of it that I would like to change. One unchangeable aspect is the weather, of course but in this post, I wouldn't waste me time discussing the unchangeable.

I would like to change the lack of green lungs in the city. As the city is expanding and accommodating a diverse range of people from various states and countries, it is losing out on green spaces which provide a certain calm to the eyes and also a healthier environment to the residents. Summer along with perspiration and fatigue, which is a constant in this part of the world is at its peak between April and August and if the city has parks and garden spread out in different strategic places, the residents will be able to cool off and socialise in the shade of the trees and the space of a park. Chennai does have some parks dotted in some places but that alone isn't enough for the ever-growing population.

The Municipal Corporation should identify many such places where people can gather together and find some fresh air to breathe and space to spend time without having to think of power failures and aircons. People who like reading books should be able to pack some food and park themselves on a bench and enjoy their book along with occasional sights and sounds of the surroundings.

The parks could also have small kiosks selling juices, icecreams. coffee and sandwiches. I'm sure people would flock to buy themselves a small snack while they socialise and enjoy their books or solitude.

The garden/park culture should catch up in the city and become a vital aspect of the city's map. I hope this dream of mine comes to pass in the near future.


This post will be succeeded by Kaushik Govindaswamy's post. Kaushik blogs at Words & Lines and is quite a sensitive and creative young man. The logo for this Tablog was designed by him and one look at his sketches and designs will sure leave you interjecting in appreciation. He recently successfully completed the A-Z challenge in Blogging with a wide range of interesting posts. I wish Kaushik all the best for his blog and his drawing.

Have you smelt fresh bread?

Seeing a picture of freshly baked bread on my friend's page, my first thought was about the smell of fresh bread. It is magic, I say and if you haven't known that smell, then my friend, you haven't been initiated into the fine art of smell and fragrances.

I have always been a sense person with smell dominating the senses. Freshly baked bread is not freshly baked bread alone - It is freshly baked bread and much more if you care to allow the smell to carry you into far away lands where there are dozens of bread episodes which are time-specific. And, no matter how much you have eaten store bought fresh bread, you cannot savour the smell until you have baked a bread and waited till the smell filled the tiny kitchen and then the adjacent room before filling the entire room and finally forces itself into your head through your nose. It lives there for years to come and will come out when you least expect it to raise its head - while having tea with a close friend who remarks on your fine bread or a child who speaks of the bread in passing or a silly song that was playing while baking the bread and is now playing on the radio.

Ah, you will say, the smell still lingers but not time. Those were the days I had time and interest to bake and bask in bread and then you stop. You stop because you have smelt that smell from your memory and you yearn . . . you yearn to smell real fresh bread and you search for dough (the eating kind) and salt and yeast and you work to smell that smell and savour that smell for years to come. Time can never be trusted but memories can sure coerce you to knead and sing along.

Post-script: This post is dedicated to the same friend on whose page I saw the picture of fresh bread. She loves cooking, baking, a hearty conversation and books (smell, feel and everything about books).

Exploring the unexplored in Julie and Julia

While food and blogging are the most obvious and often written about matters while discussing the 2009 film Julie and Julia, I was fascinated by another story which though significant is not given much afterthought. I am referring to the friendship between Julia and Avis as long time pen pals. It touched a chord because writing letters and emails is something that I immensely enjoy and look forward to. I did have a couple of pen pals with whom I shared my everyday life stories and curious incidents. Inspite of not having met, there existed a bond that went beyond faces, touch and smiles. We connected via the medium of letters -- words, words and words. The anticipation was worth the joy received when I held the letter in my hand. A weary day in school would be transformed into bursts of happiness when the long awaited letter arrived. It was indeed undistilled pleasure.

Then email happened.

But the letters still were being exchanged along with long emails. The instant gratification of emails though praised to the high heavens still carried with it an element of anticipation and waiting. The few hours between hitting the 'send' mail icon and seeing a new mail notification is of course similar to the waiting of days in receiving a hand written note. I enjoy both the mediums and exploit them fully. 

 

 

 

When Julia casually mentions at the airport to Linda that she has never met Avis but has only corresponded with her through letters, the look of Linda's face is priceless. That was a moment that I savoured in the entire length of the movie for I know how it feels.

And today, my wait for emails is intense than the wait for snail mail for I am not expecting any snail mails in the present. This also reminds me that I have to write in order to receive and I shall soon do that.

 

 

As I grapple with teaching my students how to write formal letters, I am afraid that they will never know the joy of writing hand-written letters. I can lecture them on the pleasures and beauty of sending and receiving a letter but I can never make them understand the warmth and satisfaction of the act of writing letters.

In the meanwhile, I await an email from an interesting person.


How about you, dear reader?

Mixing memory in reality

R responds to memory in a meticulous fashion. He never speaks of the past as often but while passing a place that was once dear to him, he never misses an opportunity to turn back and freeze the sight. I can clearly see that in the present, he is looking at his past and reminiscing his days spent in the portals of his Alma mater. But with me the scenario is the opposite. I don't turn back and hope to see me in another bygone time. Not even a fond glance. Sometimes, I find that a bit strange - an attitude of having grown rather outgrown the memory. People close to me find it scandalous. I choose to remain quiet, almost absent from the scene. I choose to see the bus stop where I stood. The car passes by the road and then turns. The once-upon-a-time familiar road is just another road where three years' worth of foot prints might be buried somewhere beneath the layers of tar and cement. Nursing dreams and chasing love marked those days of wanton abandon. No, they were not the best days of my life. I choose not to eulogize those days. 

The days pass by. Reality is something tangible not the memories. Sometimes the past is alluring but jaded and yellowed. They are no longer mine though they hold me chained to another reality and time. I like R's way of seeing things. He does not speak about his past in glowing adjectives nor does he miss an opportunity to mix a bit of memory when reality is happening.

Dear Reader, pray tell me what's your thought on this.

When Austen turns D for desi

While airport hopping, I happened to pick a copy of Anuja Chauhan's Those Pricey Thakur Girls (2013) and after a few pages was struck by the semblance of the setting to that of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. I tried hard not to compare P & P to TPTG but uncanny similarities between the Bennet girls and the Thakur girls did not allow my racy mind to stop the game of comparison. The pride of Debjani, the leading character of the story though has the pride of Elizabeth is but a pale shadow of the latter and Debjani's beau Dylan is after all a fond memory of Austen's brooding-charming-romantic hero Darcy. The eloping of the third daughter brings memories of Lydia and Wickham and of course the family drama that ensues is a reminiscence of the Bennets and their fancy balls and groom-hunting for their girls. I can understand that when one wants to pen a novel about the family complete with five daughters and extended family hullabaloos, it is difficult to do so without a faint Austenish hue to the entire setting. Chauhan has painted a book which can hop, skip and jump into a Bollywood set and I have even imagined the entire cast of the book. I think Anushka Sharma would make a crackling Debjani while Ranveer Singh would fit well with the lean and butt-sexy Dylan. I must admit that I found the 'butt' fetish of the girls a bit weird considering the fact that not many notice the derriere almost like a person's life depends on it!

The story was quite predictable but that's not what it is all about. How the story twirls and unfurls to lead to the predictable is the art of story telling and Chauhan has managed to deftly spin that tale. The episode of Debjani adding her own lines to the script of the news comes as a pleasant surprise to the reader who has all the while been imagining a trillion twists (thanks to Bollywood) to reach the 'happily ever after' scene which the discerning reader knows will definitely arrive.

Another reason for me to pick the book was one distinguished professor mentioning Chauhan's name after dismissing the entire lot of mushrooming 'writers' in today's India. He highly recommended Anuja Chauhan and asked us to pick up her books before casting a judgement on all the writers of today. Piqued by curiosity after hearing the Professor and seeing pictures of TPTG splashed liberally on my Facebook news-feed, I ventured to try this book. Quite a breezy and light read considering the fact that I completed the reading in a few hours short of twenty-four. This is the first of Chauhan for me and I would like to read what she had written before TPTG. And, for a person who has given memorable taglines such as "Yeh Diil Maange More" (The heart asks for more) and the lovable tune, "Oye Bubbly, Oh Oye Bubbly," Chauhan does have a penchant for words and phrases.

Yes, the desi Austen has conjured memories, stories and unforgettable characters with Those Pricey Thakur Girls.

Image:Internet

A serene train ride

This evening after many years, I travelled in the route that used to be frequented by me. A corner window seat that was opposite to the direction of the train's journey was waiting for me and I could not be more happier. Feeling the gentle breeze on my face, I resolved to 'just' feel the present moment without resorting to sappy memories of erstwhile train rides. I did succeed albeit for three stops and almost by reflex the breeze whispered about the happy and not-so-happy moments spent in the train.

Sometimes you have so many fond memories that you literally feel them jostling with one another while one smart Charlie tumbles off and takes you on a tangent. I wonder which one it is: The train rides that patched up quarrels over long phone calls or the rides where a nagging junior would want to gossip about teachers and I would want to close my eyes to honour the lazy lull of the languid weather coupled with the slow motion of the train or the dreams of carving a teaching career while doing research or trying to rush to the one empty spot of the compartment before anyone even spots it or getting lost in the smell of food that wafts across the compartment or just trying to inhale the smell of the jasmine that a flower-seller hawks.

I smile and wonder how I cherish those moments but don't miss them. I don't even yearn for them and realise that they were wonderful no doubt, but belonged to a time then. I did fondly inhale the mixed smells of flowers, food and faint perfume and got down with a smile when the train reached my stop. I stood and watched till the train disappeared and knew that it will be a long time before I get to ride in a train again.

Readers, how long since you travelled in a train?

Changing seasons, moods and memories

I have finally discovered that it is possible to let go of memories -- to stop wallowing in them whenever an opportunity presents itself in the form of a song, a film, a smell and so on. Quite often when a particular song is played on the radio or television, the trick is to hum along without any thought of the past. I have started following this technique by listening to the song only as a song that I enjoy listening to rather than thinking of people, situations and emotions. It is easier said than done but not quite difficult. The human mind is capable of adapting itself and when an individual decides to consciously shut off memories, it is possible. With practice and determination, it is not an invincible exercise.

I also discovered that memories and seasons are linked inextricably. Changes in seasons bring about changes in moods and associated emotions. Though summer reminds one of long and languid vacations spent idly dreaming of school and friends, the constant perspiration wipes off all beautiful memories forcing one to stay focussed on the present. While a visit to Chennai in October evoked tender emotions writ large with yearning for one's home, the present visit makes me want to run away from Chennai. Whenever I sweat, I also emit the emotions that made me dislike this city in the first place. It is but natural that as I emit negative emotions, I purge myself but in this particular state, the more I emit, the more I grow irritable and morose. The city love has given way to city loathe, which is almsot like wanting to escape the boundaries set by parents to a life of freedom, only to realise that the freedome one so earnestly craved for was better off being explored within boundaries. Well, for now, I want to run away from Chennai but knowing fully well that in October, I will change my tune.

That said and done, there are some sights and sounds that seasons cannot fade. For example, the jacaranda and canna blooms that line the Mount Road are a treat that presents itself only during the summer months and so are the green-red water melons stretches that dot the road sides. The usual balmy morning and evening summer breeze, the clear blue skies and the summer goodies like buttermilk, vathal, kirni pazham are delights that make this time pleasant and lovely.

Coming back to memories, I think that they burden the self and rob the joy from the present. Limited doses at specific times is permissible but living with them is hazardous, I reckon.

Do your moods alter with changing seasons? 

Tracing my reading timeline without success

If I have to trace my reading habit, I will be at a loss for I don't exactly know how I started to read and why. There are a few I know who will exactly tell the moment as if they forced their memory to record the significant date and episode. Alas! when I started reading, I hardly knew that one day reading would be considered such a fantastic activity and that there would be book-clubs, Facebook pages and blogs devoted to the love of reading and hoarding books. For that matter, I have never wondered to stop and think about the reading habit that found its way into my life until recently when we were having dinner with a BBC-Canada film director who asked me: So, Susan, do you read? How exactly did you start reading? Did your mom and dad read a lot? Did they ask you to read? What did you read as a child?

Well, I have to admit that I was looking at him with a blank expression for I cannot put a finger to my timeline of the much adored habit. I also seem at a loss when people gush and mush about Enid Blyton. I think that I haven't read Blyton and the much acclaimed hostel life stories. I remember having read Famous Five, Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew but never cared about the author. I used to remember titles but not authors but now I know that the names should be remembered and flaunted wherever and whenever appropriate.

The reason for reading is another topic that used to confound me. When I enrolled to do English Literature, the first day of the College, one had to meet the head of the department to collect our handbooks and also the identity card. She was a splendid woman who had a fine Brit accent. She asked me (in her RP): You are Susan? and then proceeded to ask, What do you read? to which I muttered 'Fffiction.' She then responded by asking, Why Fiction? I was at my wit's end. Why fiction? Come on, how would I know why I read fiction at the tender age of 19! Those days I did not know that there should be a reason for reading something. Coming from the suburbs and reading whatever managed to catch my fancy, I did not know how to respond to Why Fiction? What I did not know then was also that there were other genres like drama, poetry and other such which people did read for pleasure. I wish I had known that then. As they say, we get to know everything at the right time. Maybe that holds good in my case.

Why do people read afterall? Why do you read? I would like to read your responses.

Image 1: Internet
Image 2: Internet

A kiss is just a kiss

This post has been itching to escape into the blog ever since it has been stifling in the crevices of my mindscape and I wonder why I have imprisoned it for so long. So, today, I've given a solace to the itch by applying a potion in the form of writing the post! I have always longed to devote a post to THE KISS and not the kiss that every one gives everyone but the special passionate ones that are employed to many forms of expressing love and extreme fondness in the name of lust. Well, a kiss definitely gets it started and suspends time and place. And for people like me growing up in the 90s, a kiss was as scandalous as sex itself and it was one of those forbidden pleasures that made us yearn for them on TV shows.

 

 

I remember awaiting those 'kisses' in the 'foreign' (read English) films when first Metro channel came about in the 90s. And, of course, the after kiss 'scenes' would also be eagerly anticipated but alas! they were denied to keen watchers by the censor boards who chose to not corrupt the young and fiery minds of productive youngsters like me. Well, we waited patiently for those passionate kisses and were rewarded by many during our growing up years. So much so that I even thought that a kiss is fatal enough to make one pregnant! I cannot digest my naiveté and today I wonder whether innocence of that sort was actually possibly imaginable!

 

 

I remember the famous TV program of those years, Guinness Book of World Records ended with a kiss and I would wait with bated breath to just watch that brief kiss. Ah, what thrill it gave me to imagine a kiss. I even shared the vital piece of information with a friend who also waited for that 'kissey' ending.

 

 

And it is for all the above mentioned reasons and more that the film, Cinema Paradiso is a film that is very close to my heart. For those who have seen the film, you will understand the connection between kisses and the film. For those who haven't seen it yet, here you go: The small boy Toto is fascinated by films and spends a lot of time at the cinema house  with Alfredo, the projectionist. But the films have many missing scenes - kissing and embracing scenes which are cut, following the instructions of the local priest. Many years pass by and  Toto is a successful director and comes to his village after a long time to attend the funeral of Alfredo. Alfredo's wife gives Toto something that Alfredo had left behind for him and it is a reel that is a montage made of all the deleted 'kiss' scenes and as Toto watches that he cannot stop thinking of his growing up years and Alfredo. That scene from the film is something that will never ever leave my mind. It is a wonderful mash of memories, desire and nostalgia. And every time I see Cinema Paradiso, I can't stop thinking about my tryst with kisses.

 

 

 

 

P. S. I still love kisses the same way as I used to then but no longer await those passionate kiss scenes like yore!

Images 1 & 2: Shutterstock
Image 3: Internet

Seven: Day 5 - Seven smells that transport me to another time and day

Smells are an important aspect of memory and without smells there would be no memories opine scientists and boy, they cannot be more correct. How much often I try to avoid sentimentalising my past, some smells never let me rest -- they coerce me into mentally shifting into another time and day when a particular smell happened.

1. Smell of moth balls are not quite to my liking but a whiff of them sends me into the trunks and cupboards of houses we lived in and clothes we transferred from cupboards to suitcases. Moth balls are emissaries of nostalgia!

2. The fragrance of jasmine flowers always remind me of a time when I fought for flowers on my aunt's head. They also remind of markets where there were many shops lined which sold strands of jasmine flowers.

3. Freshly painted walls force me into a mental journey of places that were part of my memory - school buildings, shops, houses and public libraries.

4. Smell of newspapers transport me but I still can't pinpoint any special place. It just transports me!

5. The smell while passing by a bakery - The assortment of diverse pastries and savouries combine to send out a wonderful smell that immediately reminds me of school get-togethers in small bakeries and shops.

6. While sauteing onions, there is a lovely smell that wafts through the kitchen and immediately the mind conjures images of lovely food and always food leads one to vibrant and beautiful and not-so-beautiful memories.

7. Nail polish smell brings to mind the memory of other similar smells like that of petrol, fresh paint alongside incidents which formed an integral part of our lives some time ago!

I am participating in Write Tribe's Festival of Words from 1st to 7th September where nearly 82 bloggers are writing on the theme of Seven for Seven days - a post a day! Today is Day 5.

Seven: Day 3 - Seven Blogs that I like to Visit

 

I am participating in Write Tribe's Festival of Words from 1st to 7th September where nearly 82 bloggers are writing on the theme of Seven for Seven days - a post a day! Today is Day 3.

 

There are some blogs which resonate with us but either those bloggers write rarely or we seldom find time to visit their space and relish the posts. So, here are seven such blogs that I recommend.

1. Nevine Sultan - Dreams, Deliriums, and other Mind Talk

Nevine is a deep and soulful writer (I say writer because she is one!) who probes the inner crevices of the mindscape and brings out the visceral feelings beautifully. A wordsmith who strings beautiful words effortlessly and seamlessly is currently pursuing her Ph. D. in Psychology, a subject that befits her personality and writings.

2. Sylvian Patrick - Sylvianism

A marketing professional, Sylvian is passionate about films, social affairs and any controversial topic. Though he writes rarely, his posts have a fiery quality that leaves one thinking on various levels.

3. Karishma Kulkarni - Why is Everything Four

Karishma is a doctor-to be and she writes posts which are inquiring, fresh and so very tender. Through her posts, basic emotions are shared with syrupy nostalgia, tangerine memories and beautiful lines. I could stay on her blog forever!

4. Karen Xavier-Fernandez - Contemplations and Ruminations

Karen is a blogger like me. Her blog is a show-case of almost everything albeit with an intimate coating. A fan of country music and cooking, most of her posts discuss her current favourite artists and recipes that engage her.

5. Bhumika Anand - Boumika's Boudoir

Bhumika is a sensual, passionate and vibrant writer. Her posts border around love, lust, memories and unbridled passion in either succinct prose or neat verse. She empties her heart and soul in her posts. After reading her posts, I'm almost always overcome with strong emotion - happiness, sadness or both.

6. Ravi Kunjwal - Yet Another Horizon

A young research student, Ravi infuses his quest for life through questions, nostalgia and songs. I especially like his nostalgia posts - they leave me with a smile and mellow thoughts.

7. Ashwathy Nair - Dreaming in Metaphors

Ash is a keen photographer who exhibits her pictures with apt quotes. I started following her blog because she had a lovely name for her blog, "Dreaming in Metaphors." I wish I stopped by her blog regularly so that I could read fantastic quotes accompanied by equally wonderful pictures.

So these are seven out of the many fabulous blogs that I follow and try to be regular. There are more but I will save them for another post. Hope you get time to look up these blogs and savour their content.

What are some of your favourite blogs? 

Seven: Day 2 - Seven memories with my father

I am participating in Write Tribe's Festival of Words from 1st to 7th September where nearly 82 bloggers are writing on the theme of Seven for Seven days - a post a day! Today is Day 2.

It's quite rare that I mention my dad leave alone writing about him. I think this is the first time I've come close to writing something about him. He passed on when I was thirteen and since then it has been a long while. I have outgrown the memories that we shared but there are some that remain evergreen and those are the ones I am sharing today. Here you go:

1. I remember sitting with him on Saturday afternoons, sipping hot mutton soup made by my amma and listening to Biblical stories. He was the one who started me on with those interesting stories which held me in rapt attention.

2. Going hungry on a certain Sunday afternoon because I was yet to memorise Psalm 23. Eventually I did memorise that passage and till date I remember what I had learnt that day.

3. Going with him to his office and while returning we stood outside a house because we heard one of our favourite songs, 'Oh Lord, my God, when I in awesome wonder' playing in a record inside the house. We stood there till the song got over and then resumed our return journey.

4. Close to his office was a water body which had reeds growing around then borders of the water. Sometimes he brought some of those reeds neatly cut to our home. I would put them into a bottle of water. Those reeds with their deep maroon colour would look beautiful.

5. Being slapped hard when I interrupted him while he was conversing with a neighbour. The reason: We were in the middle of an interesting story-telling session when the neighbour came home. I was quite impatient to listen to the rest of the story and barged during the conversation. The response was a sharp slap. I had learnt what I had to that day!

6. Once when I got very low marks in my Geography exam, my father refused to sign the Report-card. Later he did sign it but left a note along with it with his name signed on that note. It read: "If your marks are like this, I will not sign your Report-card. All the best."

7. I never saw my father enter the kitchen but on those rare occasions when my amma went to visit her parents in Trichy, my dad would prepare delicious food. I still remember the taste of some items that he judiciously attempted to cook.

I must admit that his memories don't come without coercing but the above seven do come effortlessly. Those days were different. It has been 21 years since the day he left us. Life goes on.

It's strange how minds come up with similar topics. Here's Karan who writes at Scribble who has also written a post for his father for the Write Tribe's Festival of Words. Read here.

When nostalgia gets a tad boring

I often wonder how long can one get nostalgic over and over the same bit that happened some time ago in our lives. Won't the nostalgia stop? Will one nostalgia replace another? Will we stop getting nostalgic after we have exhausted the emotion so much like the cassette that finally wears out due to overuse.

This is a fairly recent happening and I find it pretty amusing. I think about a beautiful memory and find that I keep returning to it every single day and by the time I've thought about it for some time now that I feel tired to think of it anymore. Succeeding that 'boring nostalgia' phase is an aversion to that memory. It is then I realise that overdoing nostalgia also gets boring. But isn't nostalgia something sweet and beautiful. Maybe when it strikes once a while to refresh the bygone years and moments but feelings of longing that strike very often lose their appeal over time. Well, the etymology of nostalgia is from the word, 'nostos' meaning homecoming. Now, I guess that during the time the word was coined, it was meant for someone who was away from home and was longing for home - the physical home and the emotional security that is often associated with the home. But now the word has evolved and comes to mean memory and longing for something that was once part of our lives, not necessarily the home itself. That's what I love about words - they evolve, wrapping in the mood and the times and mould according to the context. They change but still retain their spirit.

Coming back to nostalgia, I wonder how long will something remain so precious and lovely that each time we are filled with yearning, we feel nostalgia. I guess even nostalgia changes, rather it evolves to something else before going through a few steps: Initially the memory is beautiful and comes to our mind when we yearn for the past. Then we start clinging so much to that specific memory that nostalgia becomes the norm each day. Finally we are done looking at that memory from a trillion angles that we have explored every fine fabric of that particular memory. Then we break forth and no longer relish that memory. The nostalgia of that memory gets boring and we don't feel like returning to that for quite some time. Perhaps after a long time, the cycle will begin again.

Perhaps Perhaps Perhaps.

Dear reader what do you have to say on this?

Image 1: Internet
Image 2: Internet

A morning walk

What about a morning walk, you ask. Does it even require a post. Ah, yes. You are right. These days morning walks have become the norm for many people from diverse age groups. Then what is this - A post on morning walk! Well, for starters, I was a regular morning walk person until . . . marriage consumed me! Well, marriage actually did not consume me the way excuses and 'let it bes' consumed me. Today after a very long time, I ventured to do something that I have always liked doing - going for a morning walk.

Today's walk was different and special in many ways: My grandfather and I always enjoyed brisk walks and by the time we came home, we would be drenched in sweat and wonderful stories. He passed on last week and today's walk reminded me of him and the lovely times. I missed him.

Those days (read before marriage), after my morning walk, I could come home, log on to the internet after my morning duties and wait for breakfast to be served. Well, now I don't have such luxury. I have to think and also prepare my own breakfast. This reminds me fondly of my mom whose delicious breakfasts are not a great match with those of mine. I'm not that bad but I'm not that good as well.

After a long time, I felt the cool breeze of the morning brush past me and saw birds of different hues seated neatly on the telephone wires. The green after the rain was a soothing gift to my eyes and if a bit more overwhelmed, I would have danced on the road while walking.

So many things change within and around us and something as a morning walk can remind us of all those memories. Sometimes the very thought that everyone else is asleep but you are outside enjoying the early morning gives a certain vicarious pleasure (So much so, there is even a teeny-weeny voice which calls others 'lazy'). The thought empowers. Hence, a walk is not just a walk. It is many things. It's beauty, it's memories, it's joy, it's love, it's a smile and a dance. But will this be the case every single day? I can't vouch for that. If it is, there's nothing like that but if it's not, then it's upto us to invigorate our walk.

The bottom line is: Keep walking for you never know what each walk will give you.

Leaving you with a song from Creedence Clearwater Revival (CCR): Have you ever seen the rain?

Images: Blogger's own