The Best thing in life is…

The best thing in life is that we don't know what life is going to be like.

It's like taking a shot in the dark. Like flipping a coin.  Like picking a door from the three doors a lovely lady presents to you on a TV show. Like spinning the wheel of fortune and waiting to see what it's going to throw your way. Like choosing a road when you are at crossroads. Like throwing dice and waiting to see the numbers. 

Life doesn't come with an instruction manual. You have to go in it alone, with only your instinct to guide you; and experience, with time. You have to take that chance, not knowing what the outcome will be. You will make the wrong choices (perhaps more often, than not). But that's your life - the choices you make, the decisions you take (or don't). Would you live it any differently, if you knew what it was going to be like? Most importantly - do you want to know what it's going to be like? 

And that's the beauty of it. You don't know what it will be like. And that's the best thing that life gives.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda

To Life

I took all of it – my disappointments, my misgivings, my heartaches. I took all the sleepless nights; all the tears. I took the hurt; the despair I felt. I took the anger that was boiling within, like molten lava waiting to surface. I took the sense of self-pity which laid on me like a cloak. I took the frustration, the dejection, the sense of rejection. I took the pain that stung like a thorn perpetually lodged within me. I took all the dark clouds storming my mind. I took all the ‘would haves’, ‘should haves’, and ‘could haves’. I took all the ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’; the ‘why nots’ and ‘what ifs’. I took the feeling of worthlessness, which had gripped my heart in its brutal fists, paralyzing my existence. I took the frown from my face, the gloom in my eyes. I took the droop off my shoulders, the knot in my stomach. I took the fear of loneliness, of not being understood; and far worse, of being misunderstood. I took all the unanswered questions. I took boredom by its horns. I took the indifference I had for the world. I took the impatience I had with life. I took it all.

I dug a hole in my heart. I patiently layered it all – looking at it for the last time. I had buried it, just like that. Years of torment lay compressed. Like a man buried alive. Clawing to come out in the open; dying to be alive. But I had buried it once and for all.

I sowed the seeds of hope. It lays there, dormant – unwilling to try. Unwilling to sprout. But I’m sure one day it will burst with all its vigour. It will nourish and flourish. The pain and all that lay beneath will be its succor. It will be a plant, a tree tomorrow. It will flower and fruit. It will be the mainstay of my existence. The sun will kiss it, the rain will bless it. The bees will hover, the birds will nest. The squirrels will run up and down, the rabbits will hop about. And in its shade I will lie down and smile. Tomorrow, I will not see the hurt or the pain. I will see that tree. The tree that grew despite it; or perhaps, because of it.

Lights Out

There are a few things I’m scared of. Not cockroaches (really!); perhaps lizards (I think I’m disgusted by those than scared). Snakes! I’m petrified of those. It doesn’t help that I dream of them once in a while. But nothing scares me more than death. Not mine actually; but those close to me. Any accident, natural disaster or calamity, robbery gone bad, terrorist attack – I’m thinking, what if it was someone close to me there? It scares me to lose any one of my family members. But it’s an inevitable truth. An uncomfortable fact we sweep under the carpets and hope that it’s gone. It never is. It’s just hidden. 

Perhaps I hadn’t given it much thought, until I witnessed my Achachan die. And it’s something that made a lasting impression on me; more than I thought. Achachan had Alzheimer’s disease and was slowly caving in. He could do most of the things on his own, but it was as if his childhood had revisited him. Those who know about this disease would know that they behave like kids – they are adamant, forgetful, angry, moody and at times playful too! It is quite something to see an able man lose his memory; and it’s with a sense of sadness we realized that he’s losing his sense of self. Memories come in snatches; they remember far back into their life than the recent past. And they could scream at you, annoy you, go wild – and you know you can’t take it personally; it’s just the disease catching up with them. His helplessness, coupled with your own on seeing him like this is something everybody in the tharavadu took time getting used to. We used to visit regularly and Ammamma would have her share of stories on his antics. 

My uncle was around; he had come down from Dubai for a short leave, and was planning to return on that fateful day. It was early in the morning; I was wiping the car or so. I am not sure what exactly happened. The details are a blur – I could hear loud crying sounds from inside the house. And I remember rushing in. Achachan had tried to stand up and then his limbs started failing him, I suppose. My Amma was hugging him and crying ‘Appa…Appa…’ relentlessly. Everyone had gathered in the bedroom and had surrounded him. Achachan was slowly falling back into the bed, he had gone limp. His eyes rolled back, I think. It was certain the end was near. But it was a truth no one wanted to accept. And yet, there they were, pouring the last drops of water into his mouth. A physician was called in immediately. Of course, he only arrived to certify the one truth no one was ready to deal with, at that moment. He said the needful and quietly left. To this day – the scene haunts me; it’s been eight years since then... and yet. Seeing Amma crying out loud desperately; the anguish, the pain. I don’t know how I can describe what I felt. I was quite shocked, I think. I hadn’t been around when anyone was dying, till then. And it’s something no one is ever prepared for. To see the lights go out of someone’s eyes. I don’t think it has prepared me any better. It is something I don’t wish on anybody. But again, it’s a tough situation – everyone wants to be around at the last moment. You would hate it if you weren’t there; and yet, to see someone so close just slip by. A breathing, living personality becoming just a body – sometimes you think, is that the last thing I want to remember him by?

It’s at times like this that I wish our ages would just freeze – me forever young, a child to my parents; my parents forever of the same age. And we just wouldn’t die. No one would! But then, that’s just wishful thinking on my end. Those who are around today won’t be there tomorrow. That’s the ultimate truth.

Usthad Hotel - My take

I had hardly heard of this movie – okay, so I’m not the most updated person on Malayalam movies; granted. It would be quite another thing if I were in Kerala and missed it; but I’m outside and some releases can go unnoticed. It would have been the same in this case, but for the song ‘Appangal embadum’. A friend introduced me to this song, and later I caught it on TV. The song did the trick, for I was curious; curious to catch this movie. And then I saw two blogs raving about the movie – but I didn’t read them. I just browsed them to figure out if this was recommended. After having been disappointed one day (it was sold out on a weekday in Mangalore!) – I booked a show for the next day. And I wasn’t disappointed.

---Do not read if you want to watch the movie. Spoilers ahead---

'Item' Songs!

Madam Malai…

For the uninitiated, this is not what the Amul girl  will be called when she’ll grow up (if at all). This is Veena Malik in a very nondescript, can-and-will-be-forgotten-before-it-hits-the-theatres movie called Daal Mein Kuch Kaala Hai (thanks for the warning, makers!)

So why talk of her? Or Madam Malai? It’s because I’m going nuts!

Firsts

“Something about first love defies duplication. Before it, your heart is blank. Unwritten. After, the walls are left inscribed and graffitied. When it ends, no amount of scrubbing will purge the scrawled oaths and sketched images, but sooner or later, you find that there’s space for someone else, between the words and in the margins.”


- Tammara Webber

Now that's a quote I loved. There's something about all 'firsts' in our lives. And why are our firsts so important? Perhaps because it is the first of its kind – sets our expectations, becomes our benchmark, our immediate point of reference.

The first love, the first car, the first impression of a new city, the first time you talked to someone, the first drink you tried, the first trip to a place, the first smoke you had, the first date, the first job, the first live show/concert you saw, the first time you went on a plane, the first kiss, the first time you walked into your office/school, the first time you wrote with a pen, the first time you got appreciated, the first dish you cooked, the first time you drove a vehicle, the first pregnancy, the first salary you earned, the first time you went on stage…

But how many firsts of these do you actually remember? Not many. Of course, some because they are among the many mundane ‘firsts’ we achieve. Some, because they weren’t really memorable – it could be something you want to actually forget! Very few ‘firsts’ are treasured, remembered wistfully, appreciated silently. And first love is something like that. With luck (?) it may be your last. Else, you will find space between the words and margins.

Uninvited Guests

Shush! Go back –
 Back to where you came from.
I have neither the patience
Nor the inclination to entertain you.

They keep surprising me,
Like uninvited guests;
They irritate me.

I pacify myself, my heart.
I protect my mind from them.
These unwanted thoughts –
 They do spoil the party.
I am comfortable –
Not knowing.
Not worrying.

Questions I am afraid
I have no answer to.
Don't come! You are never welcome.

Stare

She was staring. But it was a vacant stare; the eyes – they rested on some random object while her

mind was busy processing something. She had a very solemn look on her face, which waxed and

waned in intensity. One minute she looked like she was going to relax – well almost; for the very

next second her cheeks would tighten, her forehead creased with worry lines, her eyebrows crinkled

and her lips tautly drawn. What was bothering her?

Well at least he had something to keep him occupied to get through the boring session.

Come to think of it, her face isn’t extra-ordinary, but there’s something nice about it. In fact, lots of

things. Her eyes, beautifully lined with kohl; her nose, straight and long; her lips – thin and a healthy

pink; her hair – long and flowing, like a black cascade; the tiny bindi centered between her well-

shaped brows…

There she was, doodling away in her book; not paying attention to the session of course. She looked

up. And caught him looking at her. He continued to stare. She tried to avoid his gaze. She would

look here and there, only to check on him the very next instance – his eyes would still be on her. She

fiddled with the pen, kept pushing her hair behind her ears, checked the time every few seconds,

pretended to write something – to no avail. She was disconcerted by him staring at her. He started

deriving some amusement from this game they were engaged in. A few minutes later, he suddenly

noticed a quiet resolve on her face. And then she stared back. So that was her game plan; to beat

him at his own game. She seemed determined to shame him into defeat. And she continued to

stare; almost taunting him to do the same. A dare, or so it seemed; but little did she know him.

If she thought that he would retreat by the challenge, she was sadly mistaken. One must never

question the depths of a man’s shamelessness. Far from being cowered by her might gaze, he in

turn started enjoying the attention she paid him; he looked like a puppy who got a bone. He returned

the favour too – he stared at her with increased intensity (if such a thing was possible).

She didn’t give up. Strands of her hair flew over her face, and yet she didn’t make a move to remove

them. He took in that sight with admiration – she was growing more appealing by the minute; her

penetrating gaze holding his – moments where nothing mattered. Only she existed in his vision; and

he in hers.

How long did it last? A few seconds? Minutes? It seemed like eternity though.

She gently lowered her eyes. And she broke out into a smile. She lost the game; or maybe won his

heart?

There was the enigmatic smile – where was she hiding it all along? It felt like a thousand suns had

risen on her face. The girl with the worry lines had vanished! It seemed like someone else had taken

her place. He was floored by this new persona. There was more to her than what he saw. And he

liked it.

She appeared more relaxed from then on. She would take quick glances at him, sharing warm

smiles every time. They, who were engaged in an open stare contest until a few minutes back,

were now indulging in taking sneak peeks of each other. The bell rang. The lecturer wrapped up

the session and walked off. The crowd stood up, eager to disperse. She quickly packed her bag.

She walked till the door, and turned back, smiled at him one last time before walking off. He was still

seated – a wide grin pasted on his face.

Me? I walked off after an enriching session on how the human mind works.

Will the real SRK please stand up?

He arrived as the lad with an impish grin and a boyish charm. His first release, Deewana turned prophetic – he became the iconic crazy and passionate lover. He defied norms when he chose to be the antihero instead of the archetypal hero. He might have lost the leading lady on screen, but instead won the hearts of millions in the audience. The hysterical mob of women who still swoon and scream at his arrival exemplifies the extent of his influence. He became a self-made superstar; the Badshaah of Bollywood, they call him. And why not? He is just living up to his name – Shahrukh (which literally means ‘face of the king’)!

Finger Lickin' Good

Among the many things stereo-typed as South Indian, the one that’s gaining maximum ground (or already has) is that we eat with our hands. Not to forget how a curly-headed, ‘Aiyyo’-spouting Shahrukh made a complete mockery of it, with his spaghetti-with-curd routine in his (very forgettable) dud Ra.One. Oh yeah SRK, you thought that was being funny. I think when the movie bombed, the joke was on you!