Love

It was afternoon when I walked in. She was there sitting with her legs splayed, a violin resting delicately over her shoulder gracelessly obscuring her lithe body behind wood and string. I has always seen her hair as a wet collection ending in little droplets that ran down to her skirt at the temple, today however they were dry, and beautiful though a tad colourless. Lengthy strands moved lightly near her face, and one troublesome bunch strayed across her eye, she brushed it casually eyes sparkling with the promise of music to come.

“I’m really rusty you know. Not proficient or anything, I just dug this out today”

And then with the incongruence that betrayed her shyness she blurted out

“Lets jam”

She slowly began, her arm moving in a rhythm, gently poking me every time she moved up an octave. I was captivated. By the music as well.

Absorption into music comes suddenly. One moment you are there listening to ordinary sounds, the telephone, people moving about, the trees rustling and the next second you are spellbound, stuck within a world without any escape. What happens in those few seconds of rapture I know not but the realization of having been lost in music always comes about as wondrous and novel. She moved through familiar notes quickly and I was humming at the crescendo I squeaked. She opened her eyes her large black orbs moving about a little shocked a first, with the intrusion of this alien note in her world of rich sounds, then a little apologetic.

“I’ll shift lower, how do you want it?...no no sing. I’ll continue”

And I slowly found strength to go over those notes with her. Shyly at first barely audible, then moving about cautiously as if testing the raga for endurance before breaking out, into full throated exuberance. Faster and faster she moved her arm, keeping up with my new found tempo across Shankarabharanam and Mohanam. Unawares except for constant poking of my chest by her elbow, dimly aware of her presence and completely ensconced within the confines of a few notes. Her string snapped with a sudden twang at Hamsadhwani when our eyes met. I was in a cold sweat.

Origin

"So where did we come from?" I asked. And my grandmother gave me the old Iyer lady’s equivalent of a finger, proceeding to slurp her rasam with sudden gusto. Appa looked pointedly away at a spot on the wall, concentrating suddenly on it. For a family obsessed with its Iyer ness this was definitely off-beat. No one would admit how and when it happened, but it did. And its repercussions were felt even today in the later generations.

Like most protagonists of a certain age I had delved deeply into my family’s history and discovered certain truths, which no one was willing to explain. My parents are very liberal and open minded with regard to love marriages, as long as it is not me who is doing the loving. Somehow my grandmother and mother seem to harbor the notion that I am a stud-muffin of gargantuan proportions and that some harlot will seduce me into marrying her and swapping bodily fluids with her (probably just one point where mother-in-law and daughter-in-law agree, but I digress). So when I led a long and mostly inconclusive argument about our origins and trying to figure out if anyone had transgressed the noble traditions of arranged marriage within my family I stumbled upon it. The more I thought the more evidence I got. People, places, names, phrases, why even the Gods that adorned our pooja-room.

We have Telugu blood in our family I concluded. So did anyone in last century elope? I asked my grandmother and she shuddered. Did we have arranged marriage with other linguistic groups. I asked in chaste Marathi and Appa admonished me likewise, in unchaste Marathi. Mind your language Appa, but pray tell me how did this happen? No one, all arranged marriage only and grandma closed the topic with her air of finality.

As I staggered with my new found knowledge I looked for support. Evidence apparently didn’t count for enough. Our ancestral village was Anantapur AP, within its’ very heart. Far away from the Kaveri or any other water body associated with Tamizhness. Our clan-deity, Tirupati. All the ancestral property we would have had but for evil zamindars (this is often used to reiterate the supposed greatness of our lineage) was in what is present day Chitoor. But the one thing that clinches it: eat my grandmother’s thakkali thokku without steam emanating from your ears or sweat drenching your face. So I went from family member to family member in vain hopes of getting a past legitimate “love-marriage” so that I could now pursue my Assamese love with zeal and woo her.

“Telugu-Tamil all are same pa no difference” Ramudu mama said, licking avakka pickle off his fingers.

“In days of yore, everywhere south was Madras presidency; you don’t know anything about that” Shanta maami screamed taking a break from watching Gemini TV.

“Didn’t you learn Carnatic music, you numbskull, similar culture. All arranged” Subudu periapppa reiterated all the while tracking constituency boundaries across Telengana.

“No we aren’t Telugu, don’t get ideas in your head” Savitri chitti said, going off to fight with her borthers over a paddy field in Guntur.

“Lite teesko da” said my cousin smirking at my futile attempts.

I have decided. I shall woo my girl in Assamese style. I shall sing Bengali love songs from Charulata to her. I shall quench her thirst with tall glasses of lassi, feed her undhiyu and dance the lavni with her. We will ring in vishu and she shall pray for my long lasting life keeping vraths on karva chauth.

Jai hind!

Offence takers: Don’t take offence. No slights to Telugus (I am partly one). Or anyone else for that matter.

Shrouds

"So we broke up. I mean it wasn't so much breaking up as..it dint work out ok "
I nodded sagely. The mall around buzzed with activity. Young lovers held hands, leery youths looked on partly intrigued, partly repulsed. Fat aunties splurged their husbands assets seeming to be hep and an anachronistic chaatwaala pushing his cart settled in front of Mocha. She carelessly brushes her hair off her face and looked again. I was listening, coz this was the first time she was willing to talk about it. they had been the envy of the college. She the babe of chiffon dreams, he the life of every mehefil. He wooed her bollywood style, she left him hollywood style. Like a 1920's actress, tormented. Seeking deliverance.

She has always been some sort of an enigma. Not in the girly way and. No femme fatale buisness for her. simply put a mystery. In all those years of friendship none of us knew where exactly she lived, what her parents did (her behaviour most likely suggested a super dysfunctional one). She never asked for love nor gave any away. He was free to woo her and she was free to indulge in him. She did so. And then she gave it all away in a disinterested way.

He drinks like a fish now. Apparently. Smokes till ethereal smoke consume him. In that darkness of tears and the sweat of his weariness only she resonates. And yet in that chaos that one calls Bombay, they met at the local station and looked gravely. Held hands and caught together that fast local to the sunset.

PS:
I havent been smoking anything. True friend. True story. I tried to recreate the mood of the moment. I think its safe to say I have failed miserably.

Sheer brilliance

We have been tagged. By a veteran blogger, close friend and a humourous-psychotic-cranberry eating-song sending maniac. So we have no choice but to accept it. After all in the scheme of things that is the blogosphere we are but an insignificant blimp (as opposed to him, a minor celebrity). So we accept graciously.

But whats more pleasing than something to blog about is the reception of an award. Its not everyday that one gets to boast about being called most brilliant.

We is happy :) :D and slightly delusional.

The rules of the tag are: Post 5 links to 5 of your previously written posts. The posts have to relate to the 5 key words given (family, friend, yourself, your love, anything you like). Tag 5 other friends to do this meme. Try to tag at least 2 new acquaintances (if not, your current blog buddies will do) so that you get to know them each a little bit better.

Family: They're crazy. They're a hoot and are mostly inadvertently so.I really haven't even begun to write about all the stuff that goes on, but all of them make for posts tagged as humour, satire, and such many varying platitudes. This is an example of things they usually do. This, however was written after much anguish. A rare time no family should have to go through.

Friend: A category that's suddenly expanded to include lot more people. More craziness. Most of my blogroll.The beginning of it all. A rare breed of inspiring friends here.

Yourself: Not much here. Or then, my entire blog. My posts are a very good indicator of what I'm feeling currently and whats eating my mind most. So there.

Your love: No talking here. Simply
one
two
three

Anything you like: I suspect this category has been included for the express purpose of shameless self publicity. But then that's what the whole tag manages to do. Oh well. Here go. What I call parent-friendly swearing. And one of my personal favourates.

We are also supposed to tag few more. Basically make them link around their blog (yawn!). We are also giving out to the award to the same people (so that we dont have to choose and be accused of favouratism later). I call brilliant swatimala, elusive, liberal and chocoliciousgal. Newcomer fat-gujju can just do the tag and feel happy.

PS: I am most peeved. humourous and favourates are underlined in red by blogger.

Tangy tribulations

She came on her Honda, vrooming neatly into the parking lot. Hair check. Makeup check. Dress check. Confidently she strode into the hotel.

He arrived moments later in his car. Parked and wondered which kind of idiot parked bikes in a lot clearly meant for cars. He disheveled his hair, smacked his lips and walked into the hotel.

“What would you like to drink?”

“I’ll have a panagam, please”

“One neer mor for me”

The ass is starting with mor? Sigh…So this was it Pushpavalli thought. Her parents had set her up with this random guy. Hell it was exactly a setup, but they preferred to call it a meeting. Whatever. She couldn’t refuse, might as well see what happens.

“So what do you do?”

“I’m an actuary” …Or at least that’s what I’m supposed to tell outsiders.

“I’m…err…a banker” Like I’m telling you what I really do.

“Appetizers?” The waiter, a really good impression of SPB appeared as if from nowhere.

“Fried lentil puffs with the green coconut sauce please”

“I’ll just have some thattai with ricotta cheese and north Indian date sauce”

The waiter quietly disappeared.

Such was their conversation. Trivial things and the weather. Time, as it does, passed.

“Can I take your order?”

“Err Ill have the Shallots in tamarind sauce, over a bed of fragrant thanjavur rice”

“I err wanna have the eleven vegetables in coconut sauce over raw red rice”

-eh? Foreign cuisine aa? Hmph!

May I tempt you Sir? And Madam? We have a fine cellar. A Yercaud 1927 for the shallots? Vintage year it was. The Nellai ’51 is good too, but it goes better with drumsticks, would to care to sample it?

“Yercaud ’27 it is”

“And for you?”

“Just a toddy”

-what a Philistine!

And the meal continued amidst lies and half-truths.

“And we come to dessert the waiter smiled as he cleared the plates.”

“Roasted vermicelli in milk for me”

“I’m good”

“I insist you end with a sweet” she smiled and said.

“Ok then the rice marinade in jaggery, please”

Gastronomic successes often translate into other spheres. Later that night she shyed and smiled as they ate peanuts on the beach, holding hands. He let her drive the bike, enjoying the humid sea breeze as they sped past Samudra Avenue. 3796 rupees well spent.

Unrequited Love

Since buddy is now talking about Love Unrequited..a subject I never thought his pen(or rather his keyboard in this case) would dispense.
The beautiful sublimity of the prose he has brought forth gains an inexplicable level of significance for her not having read it.
As it may be, my gut twirls too and my heart flings itself within the inadequate confines of any medium of expression..

If I were to compare and contrast then his love is sublime beauty and mine is extreme insanity!

Prose is not my forte, I guess this better explains the madness thats my Unrequited Love..

I still hope in time that he will be mine,
Even though I know otherwise;
I'm aware that I'm being blind,
But its the only way I keep alive.

Though the distance physically has grown,
I feel his heartbeat closer than my own;
He's not even a part of my day,
Yet he lives alongside me always.

In this delusional world of mine,
My love for him is the only sign that;
I exist in this fabric of time,
He lives in this world where I survive.

His presence in mind is so strong,
Thats why I feel my world is all wrong;
Without him I do easily exist,
But it is exceedingly difficult to live.

A glimpse of him breathes life in me,
A reason to live and go on I see;
Emotions though are a complete upheaval,
Happines, melancholy & anguish all part of me!

Love II

My name is buddy. If things counted that way, I’d be in eighteenth standard now. And this is an attempt to define my ‘crush’. Straightforward enough so far, since writing doesn’t involve being tongue-tied.

I liked you the moment I started speaking to you. Chaos theory applicable in full force. If I hadn’t liked you then, I probably would never have and the liking only increased with time. True to the sighing young man I stuck to clichés, I borrowed your assignment and lent mine away, I asked you for help where none was needed. I think the first time my heart gave a leap and my stomach jolted and I realized that such feelings were possible, was when I saw you in the gray salwar-kameez. I stopped simply to look at you. No blasé comparisions to celestial beings or earthy voluptuousness, just pure admiration for your beauty.

Like the darkness you awoke feelings in me I knew not I had. The green monster frequented me and so did a dark gloom. A lonely melancholy and lop-sided smiles were my company. When you passed on gossip to me, it was a treasured secret, when you laughed at my jokes I felt invincible. Why did you ever not cry at my shoulder? Open at times, cold and aloof at others whatever you were only served to increase your allure.

Like a deep thing of immensity it lay in my heart, with everyday life like falling leaves on a snowy patch. We went our separate ways, as people are eventually wont to. I strangely have no recollection of the last time I met you. Was it when we were both on stage together (your black saree oddly distracting me at every word I spoke)? Or was it the coffee we had (cuppa filter in the rain surrounded by old books)? Or was it at lunch, a meager spread that has never been more scrumptious?

Familiar beasts of old call upon sometimes and I wave them away with a wave of my hand. Will this be of what I will sing when I am lonely? Or write about when it’s cold and I wish coziness? I close with the sunset. Time to move on buddy.

Love

She came, whiffing of that elusive perfume. He had searched for that fragrance in vain, at stores he knew she shopped, on his mother’s dressing table. It still eluded him. An elegant swish of her dupatta as she sat down.

“Why always the salwar kameez ?”

“I’m not comfortable with jeans”

...their favourate argument at a different time. Now however both wore a veneer of distant friendship, past ties notwithstanding.

“It’s good to see you”

“Same here. One year’s a long time”

To forget, yes but apparently not enough time to forgive.

She spoke of her life, of how she juggled home and work after her mother’s illness. Over coffee reminiscences occurred. Then he spoke of his life in the new world, of loneliness and new friends. Of his job and the bitter cold. Of the ease of American life and the glitter. Of magnificent cities and his longing for Indian food.

“So you have to cook now? No amma in America? Paavam you”

Sarcastic but friendly, he admired the way she jabbed with a smile, drawing blood always. Flashes of times they had together. Always food, the focus. Cooking together, shopping for groceries, more exotic with every meeting. Relaxing on her low divan, sighing after an exceptionally tasty meal. Together in their exhaustion of having had oversweet payasam, in their fiery exultations after a spicy meal.

“So hows the weather nowadays?” Lunging for neutral ground.

“The rain is as thick as the masiyal I make, the sun as scorching as that thokku you liked”

“V…”

She continued ignoring him. You were always too flexible, she thought. Naïve. Someone serves you beef stroganoff and you lap it up. Typical immigrant attitude. Too much change in you. I hope….

“I’m thinking of calling the gang over for lunch. This Sunday. You don’t have to come early to help, just be there on time.”

“…”

“I will see you then, you take care”

She got up to leave. Adjusted her dupatta, and left. He noted with a smile she hadn’t offered to pay for her meal. She hadn’t changed at all. He would go on Sunday, just in time for lunch though.