A Countryside Christmas

        The Christmas carollers just left our house. It’s been years since I’ve seen one, with my parents. The last time I saw, I was about nine years old.  At first, it scared the life out of me. Strangers barging into our yard, singing, yelling, dancing, bursting crackers, shaking hands, smiling and laughing. And to top it all off, a fake Santa Claus wearing a mask. Complete chaos! That was not at all what I had expected. Cartoon Network had shown it to be a pleasant, peaceful spectacle, with cheerful choir songs, sung with smiles, spreading warmth and happiness in the cold winter night, and a huge Santa Claus, laughing Ho Ho Ho, with an original smile on his original face, handing out candy, with children giggling and whispering the intricate details of their Christmas presents in his ears. As I stood beside my mother horrified at what was happening, a child about my age stretched out something in his hand, I took it from him; a toffee. I don’t know how or where it came from, but a smile sprang up on my lips. Aye, the Christmas spirit was here. What felt like chaos at first, now had an order, a purpose even. There was light everywhere, and in the deafening music of the band, all I could see was the happiness on the faces of these unknown people who had suddenly appeared in my life.

        The earliest memory I have of Christmas is that of writing cards. It was sheer fun, buying beautiful cards for my cousins. I wanted each card to have something that symbolised each of their personalities. Writing in them, the personalised wishes and their names was very hard work, because it had to be in the best handwriting possible and without mistakes. There were no second chances. But I enjoyed it, for each word written, had a purpose, to evoke an emotion in the one who read it. I tried to foresee what they would feel, and it gave me a sense of satisfaction. The cards were sent away and some others returned. It was even more amusing, reading what they had written in mine. 

        We used to buy stars every year. And when father got up on the chair to put it up, over the porch light, I couldn’t help but beam. My face literally hurt from smiling, I couldn’t control it. To think there’s an actual star on my wall was beyond my wildest imagination. Once, there was a red star with holes, then a shiny green star, again with holes, and so on. Every year the stars got lovelier, but what remained the same, was the way they all swayed in the night wind to unveil a play of colourful lights on the walls and garden of my house. To me, there was nothing more beautiful than my home in the nights of December.

        I had always been fascinated by the idea of a bearded grandpa flying around the world, on a sledge pulled by reindeers, giving away presents to children who had been good all year round, and that too for free. I used to look up at the sky on Christmas Eve, at the brightest star and hoped he would find his way to my home. I could close my eyes then, and see him flying in the sky, under the starry night, through clouds, laughing, Ho Ho Ho. I miss being able to believe in such things. There was not a speck of doubt in my mind that he wasn’t real. Maybe grandpa only visits places where it snows. Maybe he leaves presents only under beautiful Christmas trees. Coming from North Pole, maybe it’s too hot for him here. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t come to our homes. But never did I doubt his existence. No, somewhere, there was a man in bright red clothes jumping into snow covered chimneys with a bag of presents.

        I’m not saying that all my Christmas’s were perfect. I’ve had a fair share of unpleasant Christmas experiences. There once came this Santa Claus in our school. He appeared soon after the prayer. All the children including myself were excited to see him. After dancing and singing, and shaking hands of clearly embarrassed teachers, he started throwing toffees at the children. The children were scurrying to catch them and pick up the ones that had fallen on the ground. A toffee hit my head and bounced off into my friend’s hand. After all the chaos, most of my friends had at least two toffees each and I had a bump on my head.  Worst Santa Claus ever! I hope he remembers me, the tiny dark kid with crossed arms and an angry stare.

        The plum cake was not one of my favourites. I did not like it at all. It was only when I was in college that everything changed. Once in my first year, a friend brought a plum cake from his home. We all know what happens to a cake, when opened inside a hostel room full of hungry engineers, right? It simultaneously disappears. I participated in the procedure. That’s when I learned the truth about food. It becomes tastier when shared, or fought over.

        Right now I’m at my ancestral home in Ottapalam, by the side of a beautiful mountain, inside a 35 year old house, with spider webs in all corners, soot on all walls and memories in every brick. You wouldn’t believe how cold it is, here. My whole body is shivering and my teeth are jittering. Winter has set in well. There are a few Christmas stars nearby, well a few minutes’ walk away of course. It’s the countryside and houses are scarce. They are not the rich flashy ones. Simple, ordinary ones, but ones into which as much love, hope and happiness had gone at the time of hanging. There are no stars above my door. No, not because I don’t love Christmas, but because there are no children here. I’m not a child anymore. I have grown up and somewhere along the way, I stopped believing.

        This mundane reality, with its brief bursts of bliss scattered far apart in a dreary desert of miseries, has taken its toll on me. I’m tired of not believing. It’s that time of the year that we are allowed to be happy, expected even. Christmas, I believe, is a time of hope and dreams, of forgiveness and a new beginning. I’m not Christian. No, but every Christian I know, would agree, that Christmas is for each of us to hold in our heart. It’s a feeling, more than a festival, marking the birth of our beloved Jesus. It lights a lamp in the darkness of our heart and warms the soul shivering in the corner of it. So let me just see if I can make my fantasies a reality. Bear with me on this.

        My breath, it’s freezing in front of my mouth. I can see from my open window, the first of the snowflakes falling to the ground. Wow, it’s actually snowing. Jack Frost is here. The tall Christmas tree in the middle of the nearby field looks beautiful, with all the lights and the beautiful white star at the top. The children are ice skating around it, laughing and holding hands. Some are nearby, throwing snowballs at each other, ducking the ones thrown at them. I can see my nine year old self among them, playing, without a care in the world, about the future or the past, just the happiness of the moment in my mind. The same happiness I felt as we chased dragonflies in our school ground. Only two things existed, you and the dragonfly, nothing else in the world mattered. There are some children sliding down the mountain covered with ice and flying into a mound of snow. There are couples around, holding hands watching the children play. Choir songs are being sung. In the distance, near the moon, I can see a sledge being pulled by reindeers. He’s coming. Magic is real, my dear friends. For a writer it lies in words, for a painter in colours, for a singer in the voice, for a dancer in the body and so on. Where does your magic lie? Find it, believe in it, and chase your dreams. Merry Christmas to all.

The Irony

Poetry, Problems and Appearances.

        I was at the hospital today (Personal reasons). I don’t like hospitals. I don’t think anybody likes hospitals. But there they are, when we want them the most. For me, walking inside a hospital is a tedious process. It’s full of people I call the Observers. Don’t be alarmed, they are normal people like me and you. They are those, who stare at us, studying every aspect of our personality, the way we walk, dress, and talk. They look right into our eyes, judging us, maybe even having a guess at why we were there. Outside, they may pass us without even glancing. But here, they sat, stood and stared. We can’t blame them though. There’s nothing much to do. Most are just tired and probably want something to distract them from the turmoil in their minds. It’s a good thing that hospitals are crowded. We feel we are not alone, everyone has problems, some lesser, some greater. And the children! They seem, even cuter than usual, against the dreary backdrop, with their frilled frocks and shiny caps. They put a smile on every face they pass. Let them observe. The only problem is that I am not very accustomed to such attention. So when the eyes fall on me, I get a tad nervous. Angels of Victoria, how do you do it? With spine straight, chest out, hands symmetrically moving opposite to the legs, I took controlled, flowing strides, through the crowded, narrow, whitewashed corridor.

That’s when I saw the girl, a dark, beautiful girl. She was slim and of medium height. Small red lips, not the artificial lipstick red, but natural, red, rose-petal lips. Imagine red surrounded by black. Glowing! Thick, silky hair, perfectly combed and braided. A watch on one hand, and two red bangles on the other. Red Churidar that perfectly stuck to her body. Unfortunately, her voice was normal, not very interesting. She smiled as she passed. I looked down. Why am I looking down? Idiot! Ah, yes, her feet. Dark red nail polish. Why do I always look at their feet? Now this is going to be awkward, but I must confess, she was silently followed by the scent of jasmine as she faded away into the crowd. How much time had she spent on grooming? Here I was, wearing whatever first came to view. But what really astonished me, relating time, was how much I had noticed, in so little of it. Well, now who’s the observer, I wonder. The frailty of man is that he can’t help but admire the beauty of a woman. Beauty, in her part needs an audience, right Mr Holmes? Or maybe I should stop watching too much Sherlock.

As I was buying medicines, I heard an eerie music. A man’s nasal voice kept repeating a group of words, in a bizarre tune. It had the simplest lyrics ever. It went like this “Paper! Paper! Newspaper! Rashtradeepika! ”. A kitten sat in front of him, atop a slab covering the roadside gutter. She licked her paw and rubbed them over her ear, in harmony with his song. I was surprised. Professor McGonagall? I pointed my pen at her and tried the Animagus reversal spell. Nothing! Maybe I should stop watching Harry too.

My thoughts drifted back to the dark beauty. If a man could make a song out of something, as prosaic as a newspaper, surely, I must find words to a song about her. Thrice our eyes had met, each instance, a bit longer than the previous. In the first, I realised that in some ways she resembled the person I saw every day in the mirror (Don’t worry, she’s not that hideous). Is that how my face looks from the outside? But she looked gorgeous. Are there people out there who would describe me by the same token? Quite unlikely! But, maybe there is. In the next, I thought whether she looked attractive to other men as well. Possibly. In the third, I searched her eyes for her feelings toward me. What’s going on through her mind right now? A complete mystery!

That’s when I remembered something I keep forgetting. I’m changing, faster than most of my friends, not for the better but for the worse. Every month that passes leaves my face uglier than it was the month before. Yes, that’s the truth. No, I’m not exaggerating. This will be a good time to reveal to my friends (who haven’t seen me for a year; others know) that I am suffering from a disease. Don’t worry. Nothing serious. I’m just changing colour. It’s called Vitiligo. Remember Michael Jackson turning from black to white? There was a time when he’d wear a hat to cover most of his face and a glove to cover his hand, remember? I thought it was some new trend he was trying to set. Everyone did. But we were wrong. It was because of the disease. Vitiligo. It slowly paints one’s skin white, not all of a sudden, but little by little, during the process of  which one is sure to look like a piece of modern art, too abstract to be comprehended. Poor thing must have been devastated. Being so famous, he must have been under a lot of pressure to look good. Even we, the unknown, are under some. He wrote in a song, ‘They Don’t Care About Us’, the lyrics ‘Don’t you black or white me’, as a message to the people to let him be, to allow him to change without so many questions. But he persevered. And though I cannot say he defeated the disease, for it has no real cure and can only be controlled, he stood firm. Doctors, researchers, no one really knows the actual cause, let alone the cure. There are lots of hypotheses, though I have no idea, what you do with one.

Something dragged me back a few years. It was early morning. The air was fresh, so fresh that the children could taste the sweetness of the mist as they yawned. That day on the prayer ground, under the dew damped trees, warmed by the early morning sunlight, was the first time that he was called a Negro. He can look back now, at that moment, from a distant perspective. But think of a pampered boy of eleven, mocked for his colour, something over which he had no control. That day, he went home and took a bath. He scrubbed his skin mercilessly with coconut husk, so hard that he felt the sting of soap water washing over his torn open flesh. And yet, the colour endured. So, as he went to sleep that night, and for many nights to come, he prayed to his god, “Dear Lord, please make my skin white like the others. Please.”

There’s a common saying, “Be careful what you wish for”. Look at him now. All the medicines, he buys, to bring back his colour. The irony of it! But no one’s to be blamed. They were just children. No one taught them the right way to behave; they learned the rules on their own. All of us make mistakes. And wishes don’t come true. A wish is a wish, and Reality is what you make of it.

Each of us have a unique set of problems, right? Some terrible, some tame. What we must remember is that, whatever we are given in this life is a gift. In fact, life itself is a gift, possibly one of a kind. We must learn from mistakes, conquer our problems, and grow stronger. Each problem in our life has a solution. Sometimes, the solution may be final. At other times it may bring us right back to the problem (‘Catch 22’) or to a whole new one, in fact. And then, we start all over again.

Hours to sunrise, it’s windy outside. I can hear the crickets, the rustling leaves, and nothing more. Not the birds, not the cars, not the men yelling. Nothing! I remembered the ephemeral smile on her lips and penned down a tolerable sixteen-line-poem in her memory. You may be wondering, why go to such an extent for a person who hardly touched your life? Are you so desperate? To the latter, I say, I’m not sure. To the former, I say, why not? Why not write with passion about a person you hardly know. Why not immortalise her in the pages of my secret books? Maybe years from now, someone will find those words and fall in love with them. Long after we are dead and gone from this world, and not a trace of our bodies remain, the words will linger, just as I’ve placed them tonight. The words will outlive the speaker and the subject. Don’t you think that, that’s worth spending time on, even if the poet’s name perishes, to be replaced by Anonymous? What say you, Donne? Four hundred years later, your poems still warm many a heart. What say you? Goodnight and God bless. 

A Journey

Where one ends, another begins.

                Thrissur. These will be the last of the days that I call her home. I’m leaving, splitting myself in two and sending each part to a different place. Yes, that does sound confusing. A few weeks from now, for me, one home will be Ottapalam and the other, Trivandrum (which will be a rented one, of course). And there will be nothing left of me here, but a faint streak of meagre exploits, spanning the few years, that I had called her home. It feels right to give this much-loved city, a fitting farewell in the pages of my blog, after all, she has bore me for such a long time that a vast majority of my pleasant and life changing memories are engraved into her history. Her history! As if I’ll ever be remembered as a part of it. There are so many of us who pass through the sieve of life, leaving nothing behind to mark our passage. Just like that, one day we are born and on another, we die. Everyone yearns to be remembered, I guess. But maybe there are some among us, who prefer to be forgotten, to merely survive, blend in, and pass through unnoticed. I’m not one of them, I think. What will become of me, you and everyone else around? Only time will tell.

                Serious things aside, most of my friends have gone away on jobs, so mostly, I keep to myself nowadays. Well I do have this one friend in my house here, a mouse with long, beautiful brown fur. It never occurred to me how such a beautiful creature could appear so quickly into my house. But very soon I realised that most of my near empty bottles of Ayurvedic hair oil were magically disappearing. No wonder she has such long beautiful fur. At least it’s working for one of us. She comes to check on me at night when I’m writing, scurrying around, nibbling at biscuit wrappers and old newspapers. I think she’s making a home somewhere nearby. Enjoy it while you can Mousy, I am leaving soon.

                I do roam around sometimes, enjoying the city. Now you must be wondering, “Doesn’t he have a job yet? Most of us are working and earning a living. How can we call someone like him our friend? He doesn’t make us proud, doesn’t do anything productive, never calls, and rarely picks up.” Well, you know how I am, always late, always holding back, but then one day, out of the blue, comes a flash of brilliance, a dance, a blog, a song or something else, completely unexpected. (Felt great to write that sentence, even better to have made you read it) But till then, grant me a silent nod to adorn the walls of my heart with your name as a friend. By the way, I lost most of the phone numbers last week when my laptop was formatted by the Dell service center guys, thank you very much, which was very shortly after my old phone had gotten damaged. So now, mostly, I push the receive button, say Hi, and wait for the voice recognition system of my outstandingly deteriorated brain to kick in, to find out who speaks from the other end. But voices have changed, and those that haven’t, have faded away from the memory, owing to their prolonged absence. There was an awkward moment today when a familiar voice from the other side declared that he was my father-in-law when I asked him who he was. Please my dear friends, be kind, don’t scare the poor solitary thinker in me, send a message beforehand, revealing your magnificent identity.

                Where was I? Ah yes, roaming around the city. I went through all the book stores in Trichur looking for Samantha Shannon’s ‘The Bone Season’. Quite a futile undertaking, that was. They all gave me this sardonic look, as if I was talking about my imaginary friend Samantha’s book. But I did have a great time browsing through all the new releases out there. ‘The Lowland’, ‘The Luminaries’, ‘The Signature of All Things’, and ‘The Goldfinch’, all seemed so scrumptious. If it was allowed, I would have gobbled them up, then and there. But after nearly an hour of looking at books, I just picked up a short story book of various authors, just to be polite. I had always known where to find what I was looking for, but I did enjoy the search. I found the book at home, staring back at me from the screen of my laptop, in that omnipresent, liberal-pricing shopping complex of ours, Flipkart. I have placed the order and am waiting eagerly for Saturday when the Blue Dart will hopefully, hit my door.

                That’s it for now. I have to finish this other book that I’m reading, ‘Beautiful Creatures’, (yes, on which the movie is based) which is a first person account of a boy who discovers the magical mysteries of the Ravenwood manor. I like the name Ravenwood. It’s very picturesque. The first 171 pages of the book is good (Grammatically very confusing sentence, i agree). About the rest, I can only say after reading. Mousy will be here soon. She wouldn’t approve of me talking to friends so late at night. She gets jealous, I suppose. So goodnight my dear friends. Take care and enjoy your life wherever it may lead you.