Chinanchiru killiya kannamma ......

Bharathiyars poem .I didn't give it much thought nor did it stir me until I heard Aruna Sairam a 60 + carnatic vocalist sing this poem in the Marghazi concert held recently.

Every word ,every sentence seemed to suddenly spring with meaning and deep emotions.Her full throated yet well regulated singing dug deep into parental love and brought to fore the intense feelings woven in that poem .

As a parent and mother I can totally identify with that famous poets observation 'When people praise you my child my body tingles with pride and when I see tears in your eyes my insides hurt like as if scorched by molten lava '.

Emergency service ---maybe !

I just finished typing' Emergency service' at noon and clicked the publish button on Vid's blog when the phone rang.

It was the 25 year old son of my husband's colleague on the other side.He wanted to know whether I could attest a Bond? I said' of course ' and asked him to come in the evening at 6.
In the intervening period he rang me up 4 to 5 times ,making sure that I had my seal,and would I be definitely available since he had to get some documents from a company he had earlier worked with the very next day and then apply for visa the day after to head off to U.K. on an important official assignment and every thing hinged on my attesting his Bond that day itself!He was frantic . I assured him that I would do the needful.

He turned up in the evening looking hot and bothered .I affixed my seal and signature on the document soon after. It took me barely a minute.He looked relieved and thanked me it seems, straight from his heart and explained his tension to the fact that as it was a public holiday due to --Mohharum he couldnt spot a single Notary Public .

So all those white vans of Notaries dotting the high court campus were cooling off in their owners garages.

It seems that at certain times a Notary does render emergency service !!

Hormones

I have decided to delete my age from my profile.Whenever I see it I can't believe that I am that old. It makes me feel very uncomfortable.

Is it true ? Am I also falling in line with that old adage 'Never ask a woman her age' [she is sure to lie] Is this inborn in all females?An instinct no amount of education,experiences,culture and,traumas can ever hope to overcome.

A man is never ashamed of his age where as a woman is. Is the clue behind this mystery lie in the realms of hormones?

A male of the human species is never subjected to a dip in that famous hormone testosterone.He can father a child even in his twilight years. An classic e.g is Charlie Chaplin who fathered a child at the ripe age of 75!

The female of the human species is subject to the phenomenon called menopause roughly from 40 years onwards when her progesterone levels nose dive and she can never create a child in her womb.This makes a woman feel unwanted and her existence thence forward seems meaningless .Men confound the problem by looking through or over her for the simple reason that after menopause ,the once curvaceous waist becomes barrel like .The unmistakable sway signalling fertility can't be recaptured despite rigorous exercises one may undergo, hoping to kindle some attention from the other gender.

We become like husks losing our charm and allure and none of us from the greatest beauties to the ugliest ducklings would want to damage our ego further by proclaiming to all and sundry our age a surefeit indicator of our hormonal status.
Finally every thing is to do with procreation .Right?

How I long

How I long for those days when choices were limited and therefore life was less complicated.

The T.V had only one channel-viz DD and so there was no niggling feeling of regret at the back of my mind that I may be missing an equally or more interesting programe in another channel.

There were only 2 bath soaps available Lifebuoy and Hamam .One for the rough skins of men and the other for the delicate skins of women. The temptation to try the array of various brands of toilet soaps that are advertised on TV ,magazines and dailies that bewitch one never arose and in the process escaped developing allergies.

There were only 3 washing soaps viz sunlight,surf and 501 bar soap hence I never wracked my brains unlike now when I am confronted with bewildering varieties of detergents stacked in super markets.

Our time was our own.It was not constantly intruded by the trilling of the omini present mobile from pockets and purses whether one is in the bathroom or in the midst of thick traffic as we had
but one telephone per 100 households.

How I long for those days when the dhobi did all the washing and ironing of clothes where as now I am forced to wash all the dirty linen all because of that easily available device called washing machine.

How I long for those days when shops were few and its wares were limited.Now my head is in a constant whirl .First I have to choose a shop from 10 other equally attractive ones and then choose a saree or nighty or a hand bag from hundreds of equally beautiful pieces!

Solace.

I am so glad that people like Rama ,Krishna, Buddha, the seers who bequeathed the Vedas and, Upanishads , Adi Shankaracharya, Ramunaja,Jesus and Mohammed the prophet lived in this world thought and expounded their feelings ,inspirations and knowledge to mankind .They are the greatest solace to a person in grief.

It is only a grieving person who can truly gauge the inestimable value of the realizations tested by time of these unique souls.

The dot.

In my schooling days copying my Muslim class mates I didnot affix the dot on my forehead and on being espied by my mother I got such a severe scolding that I dared never to repeat this transgression.It was her firm belief that a Hindu girl must keep' pottu' to distinguish herself from Muslim and Christian girls who didn't.

I obeyed her strict orders though I often looked longingly at the bare foreheads of my Muslim friends. Times change.Now every other Hindu girl goes about without a' bindi'.But there is no question of confusing them to be Muslims because unlike the Muslim girls of my generation who dressed just like me and didn't wrap themselves or hide their heads ,the current crop cover either themselves with black burkha or cover their heads with lace edged scarves.

Kungumum

The whiff of kungumum is spirutual.The aroma of 'manjal' fills one's breath with the scent of the sanctum sanctorium of ancient temples.

Will I ever ?

Will my heart ever lift the way it did on my father's occasional visit, when all my disquiet dissolved?

Will my heart ever lift the way it did on hearing the gruff but kind voices of my brothers over the phone?

Will my heart ever lift the way it did when Vidat's face darkened by anxieties and anger of the day brightened on seeing me?

Will my heart ever lift the way it did when my sons gorged down the dishes I had painstakingly prepared for hours and emptied their plates in few seconds?

Will my heart ever lift on seeing birds flying in a 'v' formation on the distant reaches of the sky?

Will my heart ever lift on seeing the blue sky,the twinkling stars and the rich colours painted on the evening sky?

Will my heart ever lift on hearing my favourite film songs?

Will my heart ever lift when my second son brings laurels the way it did when the first one did?

Never it seems for I am still foolishly waiting in vain to see the smile of my son long since gone.

Marriage.

When two minds sing a duet marriage becomes melodious.

When two minds debate marriage becomes a debacle.

When?

When will I be able to swipe my index finger full of that crimson red paste smeared on the western sky as the sun dips and draw it on my cheeks , lips and eyelids?

When will I be able to fill myself with the cool blue of the morning sky and straighten out the wrinkles of my soul ?

When will I be able to gather a handful of the dazzling diamonds glittering in the night sky and pour away my gloom?

When will I be able to soak in the creamy luminescence of the full moon and clear away the darkness in my conscience

When will my breath be filled only with the scent of fragrant flowers ?

When will I close my eyes to wake up, only to see the face of my kind father?

When ? When ? When?

Poetry.

When I felt that my life was in my grasp ,with the world in my pocket,there was no poetry in my heart and soul.

Now reduced to a mute observer and spectator to scheme of events played and being played poetry boils forth in my heart and soul.