Today...two years ago to the day...perhaps to the hour, my life crashed. So, this is a death anniversary of sorts. Actually, this is probably a bad idea....reminiscing....I went back and read my old blog and felt like crying...not cos I can't believe I went through it....but simply cos it beats me HOW I could have been so...so.... needy.I just don't get it.

Then, there's the feeling of, "What a baby I was. What an absolute baby."

How could I even be capable of so much pain? This me....this 'grown-up' me is so much more shallow in her relationships...I don't think I can or even WANT to be that intense any more.

Not even to the man you'll be with, A asked. No, not even to him. No relationship, no human being can take the pressure of another human being living for him and through him and by him...nobody can handle that kind of intensity...not even your own self...

It's made me hard-hearted in a way...today, I can snap out of a floundering relationship, be it friendship or something more intimate, and move on as though the person had never existed, had never been a part of my life. Where did that strength come from? Is it a GOOD strength even?

A year back, I was crying cos the pain still hadnt gone away and I was certain that it never would. I had appointed a year for me to heal and forget and I had not. So, I told myself that this pain would always, always remain...

But it hasn't...like He said, I did. And the healing began and today, two years later, the over riding feeling is not pain...rather, it's gratitude cos I realise that what I gained in Him was worth the agony.

You, Oh Lord have been my only help, my refuge, my shield.

When ever I read Psalms and read the phrase "in the shadow of Your wings", I choke up...cos that's what it felt like then....it was like God was holding me so close to Him and comforting me physically.

I haven't felt so close to God as I did during those most painful days, as I clung on to Him with all of my life, with all of my being....cos I knew that if I lost Him again, I'd never live to see the next day. Dramatic as that sounds...

Now however, it's a quiet faith, based on God's faithfulness...but then it was very much like a baby clings on for dear life to whoever takes care of it...it was a selfish, grasping, possessive love...a demanding love...pretty much a transference of what I'd felt. I am so grateful to Him for taking it.

And I know that come what may, that's the ONLY assurance, the ONLY certainty that I'll ever have...that God loves me too much to see me cry and not rush to my side to comfort me...and THAT feeling....for THAT feeling...even my pain seems to have been worthwhile.

Thank You.

Let It Go

This blog has served its purpose. So, let it go. It's a fitting way to bid goodbye--closing with the latest lesson I've been asked to learn:

" You like it? Good!! Now let it go."

I don't get it. But since I've always been a rather obedient student, in spite of the fact that this costs me dear, I am letting it go...no questions asked....mainly cos there are no more questions to ask :) And the only person I can ask it to has been refusing to answer...

Maybe, it has to do with the fact that I am not a princess. Maybe, it has to do with the fact that there are no more princes, no more knights in shining armour, who will slay the dragon and cross the seven seas just to scale the heights of my impossible tower and be with me.

They all died long, long ago when the world was young.

I'd like to believe in them still...but I can't. There are no more princes and princesses...just frail men and women with fragile nerves and even more fragile hearts. Who was it who first said that if you say a lie often enough, it becomes the truth? Well, that's not true. Cos your heart would always know that you were lying...and much as I'd love to believe in a perfectly happy ending...deep down, I don't anymore.

Maybe, when I started the blog...I still dared to believe in happy endings. I know I should continue to do that...but it's becoming too much effort. Besides, deep down, I guess I knew that my "princess days" were over after all. Just that it didn't have a princess ending, so I told myself that my princess ending was still waiting for me.
But today, I know that there are no princess endings when you are NOT a princess! I'd never find my way into a fairy tale. Fairy tale princesses are sugar and spice and everything nice. So, what's the point in "Being Rapunzel", when there is no more a Rapunzel?

So...it's with something of bewilderment and a lot of confusion and unbelievable heartache that I am letting it go...this has been for me a refuge of sorts...a place to pour my heart out...a person, who'd listen endlessly to all that I had to say without accusing me of thinking too much, of complicating simple things, of being negative, of being "way too intense"...someone who never told me that I couldn't be who I was.

Sheesh....I do sound moronic and weepy, don't I? Imagine being clingy about a blog! And I thought I wasn't clingy anymore! All the more reason to let it go. Ha!

Everybody here...I've learnt something from you...something that I'll carry with me...a thought...an attitude sometimes...a new perspective...

In little ways, the learnings of the virtual self stands you in good stead in real life. At least, it has for me. In the last two and a half years, I've had at least eight blogs...and I've met so many people virtually...and I wonder why....it's such a strange feeling when you realise that you never really KNEW any of these people...and yet, you shared some things with them that you'd never share with the real people in your life....

Thank you everybody who has been visiting me...even the silent numbers on my statcounter! I will miss you all! I would have said "Keep in touch" but that would be silly cos I bet most of us have no time to care for the REAL people in our lives....leave alone the virtual. So, let it go.

Baskanya

Endless miles traveled. Countless faces met. The memory of a thousand smiles until one feels that one is the sum total of all those dear little faces. Small hands tuck into yours and smile shyly as you begin clicking.

I carry with me one smile in particular. As the jeep stopped in the dusty little village, I see an eager face running to meet me in a swirl of dust. She smiles at me as though she recognizes me. And the minute I see her, I know I’ve gotten my story. I start clicking.

“Wait, wait, who is she,” asks P frantically. “She isn’t even on the project.”

But I am smitten. I can’t stop.

She was a natural. She looked straight into the camera. And she gave exactly the right expressions. If I hadn’t known otherwise, I’d have thought she was used to this kind of thing.

Her name was Baskanya. "Does it really mean what it seems to mean," I ask the community worker. "Enough girls?!?!?!? What kind of a name is that to give a child?" Solomon, community worker and translator of Malwi to Hindi, nods, rather suprised himself.

On enquiries, we learn that Baskanya is the 5th daughter of a family of seven girls and one boy. Strangely enough, the boy was actually born after Baskanya. I wanted to know why they named her that. On further enquiries, we learn our surmise is correct.

P was reluctant about using her story. “She isn’t part of the project,” she kept telling me.

“Then make her part of it, please,” I say.

She probably thought, “What does she know about the reality of working with the community?” But I am determined that Baskanya WILL be part of the project. I am determined that she WILL have a sponsor.

If we had to work with realities, and if we always accepted realities, life wouldn’t EVER change. Reality can sometimes be just an excuse for not wanting to do better. The easy way out. Success stories are always stories of people who worked against and in spite of the realities, right?

Baskanya for one seems to have accepted her reality. I hope my questions have stirred up some dying embers of a dying dream…but then again, what if it has? Can I make those dreams come true? What chance does my status of working for a ‘developmental organisation’ stand against preconceived notions and prejudices?

Baskanya doesn’t go to school. She did though. For one year. And she recounted those happy days excitedly to me. Especially the counting bit. Of how she used to draw. Neither maths nor art have been my strong points, so it is my turn to get excited. I wish for the nth time that I had more money so I could sponsor her as well.

“If you like it so much, why did you stop,” I ask. The boy came along she explains. And then, one after the other, two more girls. They asked her to stay back at home to look after the younger ones.

“Would you like to go back to school,” I ask. Though I am scared I’ll awaken dreams that I might never be able to fulfill, I want P to hear her say yes.

“Yes,” she says and her eyes light up expectantly. I am torn with guilt. What if it never becomes a reality…? Did I do the right thing asking her? Have I given her false hope? I begin to have a slightly sick feeling in my stomach.

She looks at me dotingly and I feel helpless and angry and determined all at once. “Please put her on the program,” I beg P.

“I don’t mind,” she says. “But eventually her parents should agree.”

I ask to speak to her mother. She is ignorant and greedy to boot. “Will they send us the money directly,” she asks.

“ No,” I say. “ The money will be with us and we will see to it that she gets everything she should.”

“Then, why say she has a sponsor, who gives her money,” she asks. I realise that though she is ignorant, she is not stupid. I decide to tell her the truth.

“ We do it so that we know that the money will be actually spent on her. I am not telling about you, but sometimes, if we give the money directly to the child, some parents use it up for the house and not for the child.”

She loses interest at this point. “If we are not getting the money directly, why should she go? She might as well do some work at the house.”

She seems to think its some kind of bargain deal. What she’s saying is really, “ Give us the money and in return we’ll do you the favour of sending her to school.”

“The money is to support Baskanya,” I say. “Not for the family.”

“There is one girl in the village who is going to an ICSE school through her sponsor. He gave the family also a lot of money.”

“That is an exceptional case, where the sponsor wanted to do more than just support her,” explains P.

“Why can’t we get a sponsor like that?”

P is about to explain that we cannot demand that of people and that it’s eventually upto the sponsor’s generosity, but Baskanya’s mother has lost interest. She mutters something in Malwi and walks away. Something not very nice, I think. But the matter, as far as she is concerned, is settled.

I feel my heart sinking. Seeing my disappointment, P relents. “ We’ll see to it that she’s added on the program,” she told me. “We will do something.”

Baskanya looks at us questioningly. We smile at her and she smiles back at us. Her smile gives me hope. I look at P and I can see that Baskanya’s charm has gotten her too.

As we leave the village, Baskanya waves happily. As we reverse and begin to drive out, she suddenly springs forward, much like she did the first time. Her mouth is half-open, her eyebrows raised as though she wants to ask me something. Then suddenly, she thinks the better of it, and steps back.

I lean out of the jeep hoping she’ll come out with it. The jeep is gathering speed. But she doesn’t move. As the jeep zooms ahead, I turn back and see her in the distance—a small speck of pink waving crazily.

I love Christmas. Not just the stars and the tinsels and the Christmas tree. But the spirit, the joyous mood that permeates.

Ok, so most of us forget the true meaning of Christmas. But apart from that, the festive mood is infectious.

At home, Christmas is a wonderful ceremony. Kinda funny considering how fragmented all our personal belief systems are.

There’s me and mom…who are ‘believers’. My sister is an ‘agnostic’. And my dad an ‘atheist’. And yet, somehow, all those differences don’t matter at Christmas time. Nor does it matter that I decorated Christmas tree all alone this year, ‘cos Mom and Dad are “old” (according to them) or “older” (according to sis and me.), and cos Sis is far away.

None of it matters when we are all gathered as a little family, sipping wine and recalling in our hearts previous Christmas-es.Mostly, I guess, it’s just that--the feeling of being ‘together’ again. Of leaving aside important jobs and pressing appointments. Of making time to just sit with each other AS FAMILY.

Outside, the world rushes by, but inside, we are warm, snug, complete in ourselves.It’s about custom…. about tradition…about something that defines your world...a benchmark around which other events eddy. And its about memories of “other Christmas-es when”. Other Christmas-es when we were younger, when the world was newer, when everything smelt fresh and newly baked, when home meant world, when parents meant God, when the world was perfect and when the greatest tragedy was not being allowed to light the firepots! :p

Of a time when we'd start ticking days off for Christmas in September. When decorating the house and the Christmas tree, putting up the star....when all of it was truly exciting cos...well just cos the world was new!!!LOL. How NEW the world feels when we are young...Maybe, that's why we remember childhood memories with so much nostalgia...?As we get older, life gets...I don't know...maybe not faded or jaded...but well, just... sepia?

And maybe, we need to 'celebrate' Christmas...or Diwali for that matter just to keep us going, to remind us of who we were, to assure us that all is STILL well with the world.

I love Christmas :)) And I love the cosy, snug feeling that envelops me as I settle down to sleep. The warm gush of gratitude for family and friends. And love.

A thousand thoughts. A myriad emotions. Amorphous. Defying touch. An expanse stretching into infinity. And just one small head.

How much longer this march? And really, where are we headed for?

The goal is not perfection. But being aware, hurts. It’s just a pinprick, really. And yet, it blights the day.

Somewhere, over the rainbow, there is no wanting. No yearning…

She becomes more insistent by the day. This spoiled self that I try to ignore. Wailing, groaning, whining, always and always.

She sits by the waters looking deep down at herself. And into herself. Wondering, if the reflection really reflects her. Enamored by the changes that just one reflection can reflect in one day. I’ve tried explaining to her, that it’s only the sun at different angles, that it’s all about what time of the day it is.

But she is so immersed in her narcissistic exploits that she cannot hear anything else. Or, anybody else.She loves herself most in the twilight…it hints at depths that the radiant sunlight could never reveal. The hint of possibilities is always more alluring than the certitude of certainty.

As for the moonlight, it transforms her. Turns her into a thing of aching beauty. So beautiful, so aching that she cannot bear to look at herself. She melts into the night, most moonlit nights…

And as the voices within and without unite to reach a crescendo, she bursts into brilliant crimson flames. Replete, she cannot hold herself in any longer.

She sat by the window stringing her beads. Black and blue. Black and blue.

Black for his soul. Blue for hers.

Once in a while, she’d look out of the window, smile, gaze wistfully, and go back to her task. Black and blue. Black and blue.

In the evening, they’ d lead her to her room. They left her alone most of the time. Didn’t ask her any questions. Understood that she loved him more than she did herself.

Sometimes though, there’d be tears. Sometimes, they’d come to her with demands. Sometimes, with threats.

Come on, get out. How long will you stay here?

Shall we buy you chocolate pastries?? Shall we go to the hills? Shall we take you to the sea? Look who’s here. Don’t you remember?

The voices would grow louder and louder until she couldn’t shut it out anymore.The next thing she knew the world was a sea of whirling faces, a bed from which she simply could NOT get up, and a high pitched scream that went on endlessly.

Then, silence.

She hated those days. But today… today, she was happy. Happy-contented.

She waved to them as they floated by in the sky. Beckoning. Go on, she said. I’ll come some other day.

You waiting for him?

Yes, she nodded.

All right. Do join us when he comes.

Yes, she nodded.

She went back to her beads. When she finished this, he would come for her. She knew it. She so knew it. Even if nobody else did.

I hope this does someone some good....

Don't Quit

"When things go wrong as they sometimes will
When the road you're trudging seems all up hill.
When funds are low and the debts are high.
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh.
When care is pressing you down a bit.
Rest, if you must, but don't you quit.
Life is queer with its twists and turns.
As everyone of us sometimes learns.
And many a failure turns about
When he might have won had he stuck it out:

Don't give up though the pace seems slow -
You may succeed with another blow.
Success is failure turned inside out -
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt.
And you never can tell how close you are.
It may be near when it seems so far:
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit
It's when things seem worst that you must not QUIT.

Author Unknown

Rain always makes me thoughtful. Rain is when I invariably remember the kind of person I hoped I’d be.

I love the feel of the cool breeze blowing through my hair. And I always scurry to the kitchen to make myself a cup of hot chocolate. There’s something about hot chocolate and rainy days that gives me the snug feeling of being back in the Enid Blyton (read childhood) days.

It’s a standing joke at home and nobody comments about it anymore.So, last night it rained really hard. There was a sudden bust and suddenly the current had gone. And the thunder!! I’d almost forgotten what thunder sounded like.

We used to make up stories about rain as kids. My sis and I. I insisted it was God taking a shower. But what about the thunder? He was jumping... same like we did in the shower. And the lightning? I could never explain that.

Stupid! It’s God punishing the sinners.

Why?

Cos he told Noah. It’s to remind us to be good.

My sis had already started attending Sunday classes. She used to make up a lot of other tales about rain. Like the one about the chickens...

You know the drop of water that plops up when rain falls on water? The chicks play with that.

Really?

Yeah. Jus keep quiet and watch. If you open your mouth, the spell will break. Don’t blink your eyes.

And I always sat by the window straining my eyes. It never occurred to me that she might have lied. What a gull!

And my dad... I was scared of the dark. And invariably, heavy rains in Kerala those days, were accompanied by “current” failure. And while I sat trembling with fear, he taught me this little rhyme that I hum to myself even to this day!

It is a stupid little rhyme really:

“ Light-ay light-ay wekam waa
Wettam kataan wekam waa”

Translated, it means :

Light, light come fast
To show us light, come fast"!!

Nobody else but me could have EVER believed in a rhyme lathat!What's more, he even taught me the actions to accompany it. And I would chant it relentlessly till it drove everybody else mad.

And when the electricity finally came, I was ecstatic. My dad used to pretend along with me. And seeing my joy, mom and sis would join in. I’d be the heroine. It was my chanting, my magic spell that had brought back the light to my world.

What happy days those were... How big the world seemed and yet how secure. Everything was to be believed. And everybody. I think I’ve always carried that gullibility along with me. That child-like belief that the people I love will never lie to me.

I bristled whenever people asked me to grow up. Having read a lot more than the average person my age, I always thought of myself as a very big girl, indeed. But vicarious suffering never adds up to the real thing. I know that now. And I am glad I do.

But really, what is it about rain that rakes up this curious feeling of yearning? A yearning for days lost, days lived, days that never imagined they'd be remembered so fondly...

Suddenly, I'm feeling old. Ancient.

Peering in, you tear the web apart
With bare hands.

Creeping crawling, you stare
At the horde I’ve laid aside.

Take your face off mine .
You are better off on the outside.

Winters come, winters go,
And the days, they gather slow .

A little warmth would be so nice;
But the hearth is smashed and the fire has died.

Then, when the birds had come and gone,
she smiled wanly
and put it away-
the old dreams, the old ways.

She gathered them in a bunch
and tied the knot
exclaiming
“It is finished.”

Slowly, life returns,
resumes patterns;
Known days and known ways
in familiar terrain.

Slowly, the winter breaks
and thaws;
The heart grows roots,
and finds comfort in staid days.

On some days though
there is a strange visitation-
the sky darkens,
the sun is shut.

And the birds,
they confer
around the corpse
in sibilant whispers.

Run, run from the birds
before they pick you out.
Run, run when you see the birds
gathering in the sky.

Run, run lest you fly with them-
just a black, black bird
hovering in the sky.
Run.