Loss

There is no greater loss than the loss of a parent. That is one quarter of life from which we know we will never be disappointed; that love will be showered unconditionally.

It seems impossible to cope with such loss and this is exactly the reason why we stop listening to the advise of people as soon as they start saying, "Everything is going to be ok!" These words appear true only when your parents say so; for it is only they who can possibly mend the pigeonholes of our anxities.

I would be wrong if I say that the words of wisdom which our near ones impart are false-they are true in their own way. Things do eventually seem to be O.K not because the gap is mended or fulfilled but because where life is a tormentor, time is a great healer and we are but petty fools. On finding ourselves in siuations which we cannot escape, we as humans, tend to seek relief. Most often, the best way is by cherishing the memory of those we have lost by adhering to what they had taught us all their lifes and also by loving and caring for those whom they loved and cared for. So, in a way things do get better, or atleast it they become less cruel.

I can only imagine the loss of a parent, and it is a nerve recking feeling. But, if I come to such a situation in life, then I think my primary concern would be myself. Yes, it feels odd to admit it, but as shocking as it sounds, it is really the truth. Every human (or probably its just me) is made in such a manner that nothing upsets us more than shortcomings in our own life. No matter how much we cry for others, we really weep for our "own" loss. We hate being in a situation where we lose a person who would/could love us unconditionally. And so begins a thought process whereby we force ourselves (sub-consciously) into fact situations in which we would miss the presence of our parent.

I think it would help, if we try to rise above ourselves (which is pretty hard) to acknowledge the fact that life is life; that it is hard. Death is an aspect which no one can escape and it gives peace (as little as it may seem) if we start to focus our attention towards the fact that death could have been more cruel. Of course, death is always sudden, and its a silly question when someone asks, "was it sudden?" for who would expect death of a close one even when it was foreseeable? It seems that it should give us some relief to acknowledge that people die worse deaths, and that in passing away our loved one did not have to suffer at the death bed.

These are things which I feel from an outsider's point of view, the fact being that I have had close encounters only in having to cope with the death of close relatives and probably that is the very reason I am able to think and write about it in such a manner....

CoMpELLed!

“ she is bossy and aggressive and therefore a born leader. She slapped AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN WHO PINCHED HER CHEEKS. SHE IS OUTSPOKEN AND CAN BE VERY LOUD AND SHRIEKY. AS FAR AS PERSONALITIES GO, SHE IS COMPLETE OPPOSITE OF HER BROTHER. BOTH ARE EXTREMELY HONEST.”

And thus explains joyshri lobo her “Present-generation” grandchildren.

“She slapped an elderly gentleman who pinched her cheeks.”

There’s something about these black eyed blocks that translate a thousand thoughts. They force me into submission to a moment from a fictional non-fiction existence.

There’s a girl on top of a bench. There’s a crowd. Batch mates. Classmates maybe would be a better word for them, morons. They who are speaking a million syllables in a single breath.. They, who don’t know that the girl on the bench has been forced to be there. The force emanating from insolent pestering by those who forget to acknowledge her in their blabber race . They, the ones who don’t know that she’s been sleeping 2 hrs, maybe less, with each passing day. They, who don’t know that she can get high by way of will alone. They, the “batch-mates.”

“SHAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHTTTTTT AP PEEE- PULLLLL”

Seconds of silence, perplexed looks, shocked embrace of sullen eyes. She knows they will listen now. Will the silence last and the command vibrate through a few more seconds of utter bliss?

Compelled.

It’s a strong word, but not fictional. She is compelled... She stands, not on the bench, but in the shoes of a 5yr old. On the porch of house where she would spend most of the 21yrs of her life growing up. This time there’s a girl in front of her, an entity-someone who would be a close friend in the future. Someone, who as of now is a cousin, an irritating, over-liked rival. An adamant soul. But then there are dew drops on her cheeks. Dew drops on a hot sultry summer evening? But that’s how they look-her tears.

Probably then, the girl who will stand on a bench one day, feeling like a maniac, pretending to be no one else, wanting to be different, is a sadist way before she knows the meaning or the existence of the term.

Sadists don’t have a conscience. Or am I wrong? An existence without conscience, is it like an actor who doesn’t know that the world’s a stage?

The child of a past- that engulfs the future. Is the sadist the future of the grand-child? Will the children of today face the sadists’ approach to life? Will she-whose cheeks are pinched today because of her countenance be compelled to be a maniac?

Will the countenance of someone’s present hide the flaws of an irate mind of the future, as also, the flaws of a parent who is lost because they are a part of an inexplicable plot ?Would the world of her future not remember the cheeks from a childhood when she slaps herself back?

Is it possible that force has a magnified multiplied reaction?

Mulberry Trees

There’s something about lazy Saturday mornings. They often bring out memories of an unforgotten past. A past that dwells somewhere deep down within us, but one, which is veiled by the turmoil of day to day life.

Its only when it hits us like a tennis ball in a game of "pithu" that we come to terms with the fact- that we too, are as susceptible to the brunt of harsh reality as everyone else.
Its on one such Saturday afternoon, that I find myself reminiscing about games played on "extinct" summer afternoons .An assortment of varied rock plays in the background while I read the first few lines of Khaled Hosseini's-The Kite runner. And then, a thought hits me from a distance. its one which I didn’t predict, nor one which I can comprehend.

There’s a memory which lingers in my mind. Something that dates back to the afternoons of a childhood much forgotten. Grown ups often yearn for their long lost past, which often appeals to them like a box of chocolates lying across the table to an obese on a diet. Probably then, I'm either not a grown up or the past is too far away to entice me in any other way than to make me wonder.

The snapshot is one of children climbing a mulberry tree in the compound of a public school in the neighborhood; each clinging to the most fruitful branch. Some trying to make their way up the rather huge wall which does little to deteriorate their overenthusiastic souls. Scratched knees only make the mulberries' more delicious.

I fail to remember anything more. For children who share the memory with me, I don’t remember who you are. The best I am able to do right now is to guess your presence on the tree only from estimates of your existence during different spans of my life.

Maybe I have traveled more than any of you through this last decade, maybe you have had much more.