Possession

Once, I had a prized possession

Oh no! I committed a mistake by saying "had".

For I still have it with me

But I can't refer to it as "prized"

For it is no longer prized

So, I would rather to refer to it as possession

Last week, I took it in my hands

And looked at it for a while

It had not changed in appearance

Yet I could not perceive its sheen

A question popped in my head

"Where is it's sheen?"

I searched in vain for the sheen

But gave up when I heard the response 

"Oh, who the hell cares!"

I decided to fling it away

But held back a moment before it left my hand

The sight of the possession

Brought back fond memories

Of simpler days from my past

When possessions were prized

Tomorrow's goals comprised 

Of getting newer possessions

Today's grown complicated

I lose more than I gain

Yet I continue to strive towards gaining

Not with pleasure, nor pain

Just working towards those goals

That don't matter anymore,

That I am not even aware of

I looked at the possession once again

I tried to evoke some joy in my heart but felt none

I kept it back in the draw, locked it

Though not prized I will still keep it

For a day might come when all possessions

Small or big might be of immense value

For my forgotten self.

Aqualung is 50 years old

I am watching the live stream of 50th Anniversary of Jethro Tull's Aqualung. I remember buying the 25th anniversary edition CD of this album in Bangalore. So many years have passed since then. This is a great album to listen to. One song better than the other. Of course, the album contains the two of the songs of Jethro Tull I listened to first, Aqualung and Locomotive breath. 

The live stream has Ian Anderson talking about each song in the album and he speaks so well. The 25th anniversary edition has an interview at the end, which I love to listen to. Ian speaks so well and obviously his voice is heavenly. Good to keep track of this recording forever.

 

Head line

I started hating my hair during my teenage years. As ugly as I was, my hair, I thought, made me look uglier Note: I use "was" and not am as I was uglier during my teenage years than I am or ever was. When people see my photograph from those day, they either faint or laugh hysterically till they faint. For this reason, I started enjoying my trip to barber shop from that time. One more note: For many years, I used the phrase "barber shop" but then I realized that people treat me like a barbarian when I used the phrase "barber shop" to refer to a barber shop. So, I shifted to the phrase saloon though I did not want to. I don't like to refer to a barber shop as a saloon. I mean, isn't saloon a place that one goes to, to drink? When did that become a place one goes to, to have a haircut? Yet another note: That's the first time I have used two to's right next to each other. I am not sure if the statement is grammatically correct but I thought "to hell with it, I will leave the two to's right next to each other as an excuse to write yet another note". 

By now, it should be clear to all those who are used to procrastinating that I don't have much to say but I am trying to keep away from work. So, I am trying to expand the two lines I have in my head to two hundred and twenty two lines. Of course, I might not reach two hundred and twenty two lines but I am sure I will get to two hundred and twenty two words. Incidentally, two hundred and twenty two is highest score made by Gundappa Vishwanath in test cricket. If I remember it right, that was the highest score made by an Indian batman for a long time. 

Nice! Twelve irrelevant lines but at least I brought out the fact that Gundappa Vishwanath made two hundred and twenty two runs in a test match and that this score was his highest score and possibly the highest score made by an Indian at that time.

When I was young, I used to dread going to the barber shop. Those days they used a manual trimmer to remove the hair from the back of the head and this trimmer trimmed in a painful manner. But by my teenage years, the use of this equipment had stopped. Of course, the expectation of seeing my face without the ugly tuft of curls above it made me look forward to my visit to the barber shop. There was a problem though. I only visited the shop once in two months. It never struck me that I could visit the shop once a month and thus avoid having the curly nonsense on my head. To this day, I only visit the saloon once every two months. Now, I am busy imprinting the imperceptible significance of visiting the saloon once every two months to the next generation.

All that changed when Covid struck. The barber shop experience being an intimate one is best kept off our Covidophobia-ed lives. I am sure the concept of social distancing maintains a good 20 feet social distance from the barber shop. So bought a trimmer and started shaving my head by myself. For the past 10 months I used the trimmer once every three weeks and maintained my hair at size one. It was very convenient; I did not have to dry my hair after bath. As an additional benefit, I had the pleasure of gently placing my combs in the dustbin. I felt liberated. As is usually the case, I got bored of this look and about a month back decided not to shave my head anymore. This led to a crisis last weekend. 

I had to trim my hair and I have no idea how to trim my or for that matter anybody else's hair. So, a visit to the saloon seemed the only option. I heard some people say that Covid was on the decline and decided to keep my faith on their words. On Saturday morning, I found myself walking towards the saloon tentatively. The "PUSH" sticker on the door had been reduced to "US" in the last ten months. I walked in and headed straight to the hand sanitizer bottle. I sprayed the liquid onto my palms liberally many times. I applied the liquid all over my hands and face. I rubbed my palms, nose, ears, lips, eye lids, forehead, cheeks and chin for twenty seconds each. One last note: For the past few months, I have been able to estimate the passing of twenty second without singing the happy birthday song. I completed the cleaning process by pouring the liquid into each of my ears. I let the liquid gush around my ears for a bit before pouring it all out. I was now ready for the haircut. One final last note: I hope people don't consider me irresponsible for mocking the safety procedures related to Covid. People who know me well will vouch for my irresponsibility. Don't believe them. 

One of the saloon personnel asked me sit on one of the empty chairs. I sat down and waited. I took out my smartphone and started playing the stupid game that has captured my attention these days. My concentration was broken by the fellow in the next chair placing a video call to his wife. The conversation started with him asking her "How is it?"

"How is what?" asked his wife.

"My Frenchie"

"Your what?"

"Frenchie. French beard!"

"Don't they call it a goatee?"

"That is the local name. In France, they call it Frenchie. How is it?"

"Why are you asking me?"

"HOW DOES IT LOOK!?"

"I have seen you with such a beard before. So what's new?"

"I think it looks good."

"Ok, ok. Get back home quickly."

The guy gave the phone back to his daughter and looked at the mirror for a few seconds. He informed the French beard stylist in Hindi "Acha hain! Chalo, finish kar do". By this time, my own hair stylist stood beside me. He looked at the top of my head in confusion. I resolved his confusion by mentioning that I only wanted to trim my hair and I added helpfully that I wanted to comb my hair with a line parting my hair on the left side of my head. In Malayalam I know it is referred to as "vaga" (as in "vaga eduthude kutti?") but I was not sure how to translate "vaga" into Hindi and so I referred to it as "line", which I realize is technically not Hindi but I used the Hindi version of line (as in "eyyyy! Laine mein aana"). 

The man went about his business with trimmer, scissors, comb and blade. I sat back and closed my eyes. After a few moments I was brought back to the world by the realization that he was scratching a line on the left part of my head with a blade (not bloodline, only line). I realized that vaga did not translate to line in Hindi. I wanted him to stop but it was too late. He had crossed the half way mark. So, I had no choice but to let him continue scratching my scalp. By this time, I felt curious to find the result of this experiment.  In a few minutes, he had completed his job and was waiting expectantly to hear my verdict. I looked at the top of my head and smiled at him approvingly. To my eyes the line looked nothing more than a pronounced vaga. I came back home and was happy to realize that no one said anything about the line on my head.

Next morning, I woke up at 7. I walked into the bathroom and looked at the mirror. The hair on top of my head was unkempt but I saw the line clearly.

Get me that green hat

The English teacher sent me a mail. She explained that she was setting an exercise on creative writing for her students and since I dabble with creative writing I could become her student and be a part of the exercise. I responded with an enthusiastic "yes". I got a mail with the instructions for the exercise. The mail asked me to take a photograph and write a poem that consisted seven of nine words that she had sent. She had sent me two sets of words and asked me to choose one set. 

The task seemed interesting and I jumped into it. I went out to the balcony and clicked a picture of an old cot, which I believe is my grandmother's death bed. 

I picked both the sets of words and came up with the following poems. 

Lingering on

Beginning a life at the end of a life

While continuing to live without life

Wet and dry beatings taken in light and dark

Crumbles this lifeless life like fragile pieces of paper

Lone listener to the final words uttered verysoftly

By an old grandmother as she stared at the humbling darkness

A hundred seasons of rain have passed

And yet she stares steadfastly at the horizon

While expressing refusal to leave this world

Before hearing you confess your

disappointments and wrongdoings.

Iron Gates

Beyond the iron gates lie a world

Where the greens make way for the greys

My idle head resides in domains more ideal than real

Where childhood’s flowers swayed

To the tune of laughter straight from one’s heart

Where living to a hundred and fifty

Makes none utter “look at this miracle”

Where particles hold hands in harmony

Rather than maintain six feet from each other

Where iron gates cannot stop me

In my attempt to fly away from the constraints of reality

I sent her the poems and waited anxiously for her feedback. The poems did not turn out to be greatest pieces of creative writing that she had seen. Yet she only had issues with a few sentences in the poems. Apparently, the lines seemed too convoluted. I read my poems and sure enough the lines seemed convoluted. I sat in front of my laptop and chewed the top of my imaginary pencil. In a few minutes, I changed the poems to the following form.  

Lingering on

As in life, in death too she offered help

To all who felt the need for rest

Waiting like a piece of paper

To record scenes of happiness

Interspersed with tears of sadness

Lone listener to the final words uttered very softly

By an old grandmother as she stared at the humbling darkness

A hundred seasons of rain have passed

And yet she stares steadfastly at the horizon

While expressing refusal to leave this world

Before hearing you confess your

disappointments and wrongdoings.

Iron Gates

Beyond the iron gates lie a world

Where the greens make way for the greys

My idle head resides in domains more ideal than real

Where childhood’s flowers swayed

To the tune of laughter straight from one’s heart

Where living to a hundred and fifty

Makes none utter “look at this miracle”

Where there is a moment of happiness

That exists without a shadow of guilt

Where iron gates cannot stop me

In my attempt to fly away from the constraints of reality

I sent back the modified poems and waited eagerly for her feedback. 

Six months later, I don't have any hope of her responding. I looked up at the moon and said "She's probably finds it difficult to accept that an engineer can be this creative. What to do, what to do. Such is me!" 

Moving on

Mornings, not like afternoons

Afternoons differing from evenings

Evenings changing into nights

And yet ...

All mornings seem the same

So does the afternoons

As are the evenings

… and the nights

I seem to be stuck in a day

Like Bill Murray in Groundhog’s day

 

Frozen in time

Ever waning enthusiasm

Aware of the ticking counter

Revealing morbid tales

 

The environs don’t seem different

But my eyes disagree

The air has remained the same

But I don’t trust it anymore

My fingers yearn to touch my face

But the nose peer at them suspiciously

I wet my hands and reach out for the soap

But my hands stop midway

The liquid soap has won my confidence

But what if the virus thrives on the bar of soap?

I look at it keenly

But the virus is too small to be seen

I wash away the top layers off the soap

But wonder if this precaution is sufficient

Many have talked to us about sanitizers and liquid soaps

But I have heard nothing about the soap bars

It should have been a five second affair

But now every person born on that day get a happy birthday song

 

Forecasts predict bleak times ahead

Even clean hands might not stop

Affectionate creatures from

Reaching my insides

 

I know how to keep away from the virus

But does the virus know how to keep away from me?

The potatoes look healthy from the outside

But did the virus think so too?

Onions bring tears in my eyes

But the virus has no eyes

I love the smell of the sanitizer on my palms

But my tongue protests as the food reaches it

I know how to be clean

But being clean is no longer enough

I latched on to the word enough

And decided to go back to 1984

 

Never in my life will I be

Overly concerned about the virus

For I don't care about these small creatures

Even when the doctors yell

About its existence among us

Reaching out to us constantly. 

A momentary lapse of memory

The brothers loved to hang around with him and his year old son. They loved to push the stroller around the compound and talk to the father and son on various topics. For many days she had observed this unusual group. One day she walked up to them and started talking. After a few moments, she asked the older brother "which school are you studying in?" The boy looked at her confused. She thought he did not understand the question and repeated it. The boy's expression did not change. He continued to stare at her confused. The father of the toddler teased him with a smile "have you forgotten your school's name?" The boy did not respond. She was shocked "have you forgotten?" The boy did not respond. "Do you remember which class you study in?" The boy responded promptly "I am in third and my brother is in first". She continued to probe " ... and the school?".

Silence.

The father of toddler asked "which mobile do you use?" He responded "I use a laptop, Lenovo". "Ah! You remember that but not your school's name is it?" The boy's face brightened and he mentioned his school's name. The two adults in the company seemed surprised. It was the name of a popular school in the neighbourhood.

Childhood's end

The fifteen year old sat beside me and let out a disappointed sigh. I looked at him with a question in my eyebrows. He complained "I want to write about my life but I don't know where to start". The appropriate response for this complaint rose in my head. "Why don't you start at the beginning?" He gave me an annoyed stare. I smiled and started typing out the following words. As I typed, I read it out to him. By the end of the second sentence, he started writing in a notebook. The exercise did not hold his interest beyond that evening but my journal got richer by a post (or is it a past?).

I don't remember a thing about the day I took birth. Actually, I don't remember a thing about the first year of my life. To tell you the truth, the details of my first five years of life are sketchy. I remember bawling as my uncle threw me into the Kindergarten school. The school was named "Isabella" and from that day, I lost my trust in organizations with the name "Isabella". I remember the house I stayed in - my grandmother's house, when I was four. The house was by the railway line and it had a long window at the front. I remember being taken to a movie in Palakkad and hating the movie. I think it was the Malayalam movie "Nellu". I don't remember anything else. But my parents and grandparents have filled in the gaps with a few stories. The first one I heard was about me getting lost in a tea plantation in Ooty. They keep mentioning that I could have been lost forever but by God's grace I was found. 

The second incident took place at my great grandparents' house in Chittoor. One evening I was running up and down the veranda outside the house and I fell down. The right side of my head crashed on the terracotta tiles that lined the floor. A wound opened up and a blood started pouring out. My parents picked me up and took me to a hospital. Pus started collected around the wound and soon my face bloated up into an ugly lump. I could not see anything and my parents and the doctor sat around me worried. Around midnight I called out to my parents and said "I can see a small light there and it is becoming bigger". My parents and the doctor turned around and looked out of the window and saw a car approaching the hospital. The doctor heaved a sigh of relief and said "Thank God!".

We used to stay in a house on the side of a main road near Olavakkod railway station. There were three or four houses in a row and though there was no one of my age in these houses, being the only child in these houses, I became the star of the place. This meant that I could walk into any house at any time and expect to be entertained. Every morning, as my father left for office, I ran out of the house. I walked into the neighbour's home calling her name (which I believe is "Sharadae"). I had to be dragged back home at lunch. One morning, I locked my mother in the bedroom and walked away. My mother called out my name desperately but I continued to walk away laughing. My mother was scared out of her wits. She called out for help for a few minutes. The maid in the next house heard her call and came running. She opened the door and my mother ran out to the neighbour's house where she found me munching a murukku happily. My mother dragged me back home and ensured that my backside turned pink.

I spent a miserable year of my life at a school in Palakkad. I was in first standard and I have never worked on my homework like I have done in that year. As a result of that one year, I hate homework even now. For most children, no learning happens through homework. It only exists to make the grownups believe that the children are working and learning. I used to go to the school in a horse-cart (kuthiravandi driven by a kuthiravandikaran). I don't have any memory of the journey to and from the school or my friends and teachers at the school. Fortunately, it has all been overwritten by other trivial matters. But I will never forget this one incident from that year. 

I was walking out of the school gate one afternoon when I saw the kuthiravandi leaving. I tried to stop it but no one noticed me. So, I stood by the road wondering what to do. The hot afternoon sun was frying the insides and outsides of my head. Probably as a result, I started thinking about the route from my school to home. A few minutes later, I realized I knew how to get home from the school. So, I started walking. I spent the next hour or so walking the four kilometres that separated the school from the telephone exchange (the fourth and fifth floors of the exchange were reserved for staff quarters). 

When I reached home, I did not think it important to tell my mother that I had missed the horse-cart and had walked home and went about my post-school time life peacefully. About an hour later, the kuthiravandikaran arrived at our doorstep and announced frantically to my mother that her son was missing. My mother refuted the claim by saying "no he isn't; he is lazing inside". The kuthiravandikaran recounted what happened. My mother came in and asked how I had reached home. I responded casually "I walked home". I don't have to explain the actions of the next few minutes. At that point, I did not understand why my mother was making a big deal of this trivial incident. Years later, as I travelled along the route, I shuddered thinking how I would have felt if I realized that my five year old son had walked alone on these busy roads. There are two questions that remain unanswered in my head though.

1. How was I so sure about the route?
2. What the hell is wrong with that kuthiravandikaran?