Indira

There are some places which makes such sharp impression on you, that you end up feeling, you had never left the place after all...


As I shivered through the road with my bag, and huffed in the early morning mist, I reached, what I would call one of my 'favorite turns'. I am slightly disoriented when it comes to places, contradicting my love for traveling to different places! And this turn has been one of the toughest one for me. The temple just close to the turn is my landmark.
I leave the early morning traffic behind me and take the turn.
Like always, I have the 'happy' feeling inside me. There is M S Subhalakshmi singing Suprabatham in the background and as I look at the lane ahead, I can see a long road with a lot of turns that cuts it in between. Everything is suddenly quiet, as if I have entered into a sleepy little town, that was mostly a part of my imagination than the reality in front of me. I can clearly hear the broom being used somewhere in the next lane, and dogs walking too actively for their owners.
As I walk past this, through the trees that is sparsely stretched across the road, the morning sunlight fall on to the road of dried leaves...

And I enter S B I Staff Colony

Antidote?

‘Disgusting! Thoroughly disgusting!’, I thought to myself.

It had been over a week that I had started feeling weak. So when my aunt told about a doctor whom I could visit, the only question I asked was, if he was old. With experience and ‘no’ antibiotics in picture, I made my way to the doctor with my parents for company.

As the rickshaw made a good attempt to pull itself through the steep stone filled path, making out heads meet the roof of the rickshaw, I started wondering if at all the visit would be fruitful. Finally after the whole effort of getting out of each ditch in our path, we reached, what the driver told the wall of the doctor’s house. As we turned to look for an entrance, I saw a small gate little high up. I opened this gate to see a beautiful little patch of garden. It seemed quite neat and tidy. And much to my satisfaction, the garden faced an aged house. I stood mesmerized by the whole ambience, as a frail looking old man came out from the house, probably hearing the creak from the gate I opened. He motioned us to the next room.

My already existing dizziness seemed to increase with the whole ‘old and mature’ effect of the surrounding. I have heard them say, ‘First impression is the best impression’. This would probably be one of those impressions which would stay with me. ‘The doctor’s torn shirt’, which made me like him instantly. Truthfully, I know I would never come across a doctor (with a MBBS degree) wearing a shirt with an evident ‘torn’ patch on the right sleeve. I tried to concentrate on his lip movements, but I couldn’t make out a single word that he uttered, until my mother helped me out. I was a little bit taken aback when he held my hands to check my pulse. Not for anything but it had been long, and I might as well say, really really long, since a doctor took the patience to hear my pulse for one whole minute. And as the doctor wrote my name on the prescription sheet, I couldn’t help looking at his hands shiver with weight of his age, which would probably be close to seventy.

I couldn’t hold on my curiosity for long. So I slipped away in-between the conversation, to look around. The garden outside was quite neatly arranged, with same plants planted in rows, so that when the flowers grow, it will be all of one color. As I walked ahead, I couldn’t contain stealing a glance inside the room next to his ‘office’.

What I saw was surely a room, but looked more like a passageway. In that was a couch, where in my imagination sat the doctor reading or simply thinking. Next to it was a sofa, with a small pillow, which I could make out, was used recently. Probably we woke up the doctor from his nap, I thought to myself as I stepped in. As I looked around, making million excuses and reasons in my head for entering his private room, my eyes fell on the wall with old photographs. Before I could make any sense out of my actions, the urge of curiosity pulled me in and I stared at the photographs of what I imagined to be the ‘young doctor’. The passageway like room turned to the left to make another room. And as I peeped inside, I could see a ‘blue’ colored idol of Krishna, with other Gods, on the far away end of the room.

I sighed deep. Everything was neat. Everything was where it should be. The bed spread on the small cot was without any creases. That could be the well known sign of ‘loneliness’, I thought to myself. I turned to leave and outside I saw the rickshaw driver who was waiting for us, giving me ‘you-are-weird’ looks. 

Even as I was thinking of writing this on my way back, I knew I would get stuck on a conclusion for this thought.

Do I really need to conclude an old man’s story? Can’t I just leave it to him and the wonders of imagination?

Hostel mate

S Sitara Khatum; I had met her in an unimaginable circumstance. After all staying in 'Priyanka's Working Women's Hostel' wasn't quite something I could imagine for myself.

 A women just entering her sixties, she had views and thoughts that surely lacked in any of the hostel mates I had spoken to. Finding herself a bit odd for her age, to be in a hostel filled with young bubbling girls, she frequently found refugee in my room. I didn't mind an aged company with me, for only with them can I share experiences. 

 We discussed all different topics we could think of. Finding my curiosity revolving around the wildlife, culture and people of Assam, we would sit to chat after her namaz in the cramped hostel room. We spoke about food, we spoke about lanterns, we spoke about places... yet we never got too personal with each other. We never forced our opinions on each other. We found momentary company which turned out a rival to our boredom.

 What fascinated me most about her talks was the way she described the British Assam, she had seen as a child. She spoke of the river canals that were so clear then that one could see the green grass below and fishes could be caught by hand. She described to me, how her father had taught her to catch a fish with hooks. I was thoroughly awed and impressed by the recollection of such minute details of her past. How much of change has she seen through her lifetime and how much of effect has it had.

The old forest bungalows, she told me, were built on top of logged tree trunks. I let my imagination flow and get a view of the Assam I would never see, for now those pillars of trunks holding the bungalow had been converted into an office in itself. Her face used to sadden with pain that the modernization has bought.

After she left that particular day, when she gave me many information about Assam, I jotted it down on my dairy. We exchanged phone numbers that day, though we knew, we wont be calling each other. It wasn't that we weren't going to see each other again but as a matter of fact, we didn't see each other after that night. 

Soon and quite suddenly I shifted my place and never got a chance to say goodbye to her. I am sure it wouldn't matter much for each of us and we could move on with life. But, what we moved on with was carrying some memories of people and places we would never see...

Kodhandan

I had planned to start this blog by introducing some interesting person who has inspired me with thoughts and dreams, innocence and perfection. Like they say, plans never work...

I was walking down the known crowded roads of my childhood. And that's when I saw the face which after so many years had weathered with experience. But behind all those wrinkles was a familiar face from my past. We looked at each other for a matter of seconds and moved past. Impulsively my brain started working, re-registering all the incidences and circumstances.

He was Kodhandan's father. This post is about Kodhandan and not his father whom I saw.

Kodhandan as I remember now, was in his late-teens when I had known him. I don't remember things clearly for I was too small then, but one memory of him has stayed all these years with me.
Its just that, he spoke many languages.
I remember feeling awed as he heroically translated many sentences in all different languages he knew. It highly impressed me and led me thinking of his knowledge of all the places he had been to.
I wondered which school he studied in?
Which teacher taught him all different languages, when mine taught different subjects in the same language?
I simply wondered...

I dedicate the following to childhood memories of Kodhandan...

In English - I am hungry, I am sleepy
In Hindi - Humko bhukh lagi, Humko neend aa rahi hai
In Marathi - Mala bhukh lagli, Mala zop lagli
In Tamil - Yennaku passi karda, Yennaku tukam varada
In Malayalam - Yeniki vesakunnu, Yeniki oorakam varunu
In Kannada - Nangae hasvagthaydae, Nangae nidae barthaydae
In Telugu - Naaku aakali vastundi, Naaku nidrae vastundi
In Bengali - Mor khidae payche, Mor goom payche
In Assamese - Mor bhukh lagse, Mor tuponi lagse

Yess!!!!