The silence in the clamour of a train journey

Somewhere between Ottapalam and Palakkad on a train journey from Cochin to Coimbatore, my senses were free to feel the world around me. The 5 year old was asleep (phew), I had an engaging book in hand (woohoo); and then, suddenly, I had to keep the paperback down and just be. That’s when the thoughts came rushing, and I had to write them down. I found a four-line English book in the daughter’s bag, and a pen, and then the words began to spring... 

“Train journeys are a time to enjoy the quiet in the noise. To look within as you look out. To not do a thing because just “being” is a kind of doing.

I enjoy the luxury of “not doing anything”; or should I say just “being”? For me, just reading a book as the world goes by is a luxury I rarely enjoy these days. But today is one of those lucky days when the clanging railway tracks bring me that elusive inner calm; elusive, because a young working mother is mostly denied of that pleasure.

I look at the speeding landscape, listen to the vendors selling their wares, watch the co-passengers—some reading the newspapers, a few sleeping, and others chit-chatting with each other—and I find myself in each one of them; a passenger who knows exactly where she is going, but unsure of what experiences await there. But the anticipation is priceless…”

Rumination done, I went back to my book. Smiling.

As I typed these words out on my laptop after getting back to Cochin, I tried going back to how I was feeling on that train. The daughter and I rarely travel alone; unless of course we drive around the city, trying to get things done as we agree and disagree on a thousand things. But this journey was different. I was going to a city I had left 12 years ago. Of course I had been there a few times in between, but this time it felt different. Special. Perhaps why the mind was wandering, picking at random thoughts, making sense of my eagerness to get there. It’s when moments like these come along that I thank my stars for making me a writer. An average one, alright. But at least I know how to put my thoughts down on paper.

As the days at Coimbatore unfolded, I rediscovered almost all of what I had left behind. It was precious. It made me want to cry and laugh at the same time. And when I was leaving, my heart ached. That bittersweet feeling. I told myself—I may have made many mistakes when I was in this little town, growing up and learning from life’s little lessons, but I wouldn’t want to change a thing.

I said my goodbyes as the train left the station, unsure if I would be back ever again; but glad that I had a few more memories to take along with me. 

Nameless tears

There are nights I cry myself to sleep. Why does a happy woman like me have to do that, and for seemingly no real reason? Perhaps I am too tired, physically, and sometimes mentally. Even then the crying seems a little extreme. I think I have a great life. A supportive family, a great job, lovely colleagues, great friends…but still there are times when the emptiness just engulfs me. The tears brim over, and all I can do is curl up on my bed and cry, till sleep takes over. I have asked myself many times why I am so demanding of life. Why would anyone want so much happiness? I understand that happiness and disappointments come hand in hand, so one should be used to the ups and downs, the fits and starts. But obviously that realization alone doesn’t make you accepting of it. And so the cyclic tears make their unexpected appearance every once in a while. The reasons are plenty—from something as simple as too much to do, to something more complicated like no “me time”. I have cried for something as silly as having to watch a movie that I just don’t want to, but because someone in the family wants to, and I am obliged to tag along. Yes, when life is choc block with things to do, even the silliest things can tick you off. I have even shed copious tears because the daughter talks incessantly and all I can hear in my head is screeching and pounding of ceaseless questions and demands! I have cried craving for silence! In all honesty, I have a good life. I probably couldn’t have asked for a better one. Things seem to work out just fine for me most of the times. So there’s nothing to really complain about. But then again, who really knows a woman’s heart. Not even the woman herself. So let the tears flow, because in the morning, the sun rises, and so does she, with new spirits, new hopes and a new sense of happiness. To me this is my way of appreciating my life, of finding me after crying nameless tears.  

Amen.

Finding me...

In the rising sun

And interrupted dreams

On cold morning floors

And running tap water

In quiet tea cups

And agonizing yoga poses

In hurried breakfasts

And on narrow winding roads

In incomplete projects

And stubborn writer’s block

In heavy lunch packs

And bad tasting coffee

In tired drives back home

And at long traffic signals

In slow evening dog walks

And during endless dinner menu discussions

In the incessant Whatsapp pings

And on hot chappathi tawas

Between forced playtime sessions

And on the ironing table

In peaceful green tea cups

And incessant innocent questions

On the lonely warm bed

And in the chilly breeze from the AC…

Squeezing in a bit of me into every chore

Searching for my soul in life’s little challenges

Finding me day after day

Even when I feel inundated

Realizing that it gets harder everyday

Yet not wanting to change a thing

My advice to my mother

You must wonder what I’m aiming at. It’s Mother’s Day, and instead of pouring praises over you, mom, here I am, trying to offer you advice! If I weren’t fearful of the splendid lashing I’d get for this, I would have shared this with you…

But hey, I am 33. I am a mother. And I think I am old (and mature…hell yeah) enough to offer advice to someone almost double my age. So here goes…

1. Mom, I love you. I don’t say this EVER. And that’s a terrible thing to do. But I wish you’d understand nevertheless. I mean, c’mon, I am 33, married, independent. You are healthy, independent, comfortable. Why the hell would someone live with their mother otherwise? Love.

2. I am an individual; before being a daughter, wife, mother, homemaker, etc. You forget that; a lot. Please don’t.

3. I am not going anywhere. So if you are trying to test the waters by ‘acting’ obnoxious, I am not buying it. So all that moody, unreasonable behaviour is doing us no good. And whatever you do and say, I won’t leave you alone. EVER.

4. I am not trying to be the best mother ever. I am average, but I am bloody good average. Remember that you aren’t perfect either; so don’t expect excellence from me. I am not even going to attempt it.

5. Yes, I am selfish. Everybody should be a little selfish. You should too. You are too. Please don’t judge me for being so.

6. There are some things I cannot do. Just like you cannot. Please don’t overlook the many things I can do and I am doing for such minor “cannots”.

7. When you are upset or angry, I get upset and angry. Even though I pretend like it doesn’t bother me. Open your heart and you’ll notice.

8. When people leave this world, they leave an empty space that cannot be filled. I am not attempting to take someone’s place or fill that void. I wish you’d understand my limitations and not expect so much from me. I am only human, and quite flawed at that!

9. Make more friends. It can do wonders. A social life does not mean hanging out with the family ALL THE TIME. It means having someone outside the family to talk to. It’s important…very important.

10. You are strong; a lot stronger than I had expected. But strength doesn’t mean closing your arms across your heart. I am 33 and mature and independent and all that, but I am still your child, and I need more warmth. Being warm doesn’t mean you’ll be rendered weak.

Happy Mother’s Day, Amma.

PS: I couldn’t possibly share half of this with you, mom. But I promise I’ll try J

Goodbye, my friend

The pebbled pathways we walked on,
The ones on which we chit-chatted and discovered each other;
Let’s look back at them one last time,
For I want to say Goodbye, my friend.

The breezy evenings we spent under the skies,
When we shared silly jokes and laughed;
Let’s look back at them one last time,
For I want to say Goodbye, my friend.

The crazy days when we bought cigarettes,
And giggled while we tried to smoke them;
Let’s look back at them one last time,
For I want to say Goodbye, my friend.

The mad arguments and fights we had,
When all we wanted was to sort it out and move on;
Let’s look back at them one last time,
For I want to say Goodbye, my friend.

Those tables where we piled up empty cups of coffees, 
And shared our deepest secrets and fears;
Let’s look back at them one last time,
For I want to say Goodbye, my friend.

The long nights we sat up and drank like fish,
And guffawed before we collapsed on our beds;
Let’s look back at them one last time,
For I want to say Goodbye, my friend.

That last holiday we took together,
Where the silences were longer than the conversations;
Let’s look back at it one last time,
For I want to say Goodbye, my friend.

The one long year in between,
The longest we’ve not spoken;
Let’s look back at it one last time,
For I want to say Goodbye, my friend.

You will be missed; but I wish you good luck.
It’s sad we are done; but I'm happy you came along.
I have memories of a beautiful friendship; but it’s time to set us free. 
So here I am, saying this one last time...
Goodbye, my friend, goodbye.

The angry young woman

Anger. Women aren’t associated with that kind of strong emotions.

She’s expected to be the epitome of love, patience, sacrifice. And if she is a wife and a mother, the sobriquets just make you want to gag and die. So, while the whole world is allowed to raise its voice and make its grievances heard, the woman is expected to bottle it up and endure.

Haven’t you seen how at public spaces an angry woman is viewed with disgust? So much so that even other women are embarrassed by her brazen outspokenness. Whether she’s making her dissatisfaction evident with the service at a restaurant or is pulling up a driver for rash driving on the road or is haggling with the guy at the snacks counter of a cinema hall for balance change that is rightfully hers, people around her just want to judge her. “Look at that fightercock!” “Women these days are impossible!” “Gosh, her husband looks so embarrassed, see!” Comments come aplenty.

But clearly, this is the age of the angry young woman. Her anger is fitting for an era that pretends to be modern and open, but its bedrock is still some archaic set of rules and regulations. Women today are “allowed” to be liberated. They aren’t born free. So if their fathers, brothers, grandfathers, uncles, boyfriends, husbands and sons “allow” them to enjoy a sense of freedom, then they can have it. But they can have it only as much as they are allowed to. Anything more, then what was offered on a platter will be taken away as a form of punishment. What a truly enjoyable game!

Why wouldn’t the woman of today be angry then! You say it’s okay to work and earn your own money, but it ain’t okay to choose your life partner. You say it’s okay to be out at night, but you rape her and leave her to die. You say it’s okay to dress the way you like, and then look at her like you are going to tear her apart, and do. You say she can speak her mind and then remind her that women should be mild-mannered and soft spoken. Honestly, WHO THE HELL ARE YOU TO MAKE THESE RULES ANYWAY? Did she ask you for your “permission” to live her life? And who the hell gave you the right to humiliate her, abuse her and violate her?

Women don’t want your bloody rules. They just want to be left alone. Just don’t pretend to be their benefactor. Don’t try to bottle her into constricted gender roles. Remember, women are unlearning, and it won’t take too long to turn the tables. Don’t push it too far for your own well being.

A note on Father's Day

Every year on Mother’s Day, I’d have a gift ready for mom. And just as I’d give it to her,

Papa would exclaim, “Oh! Sirf Mother’s Day pe gift? What about Father’s Day?!”

His intention? To piss me off! And he would get just that; every single year. I would immediately turn around with a deeply offended look on my face, “PAPA!!!” I’d yell! Of course, he’d be pulling my leg. I’d never missed a Father’s Day either. He’d break into a big, loud guffaw; one I can still hear. 

I miss that.

Fathers are special. Special in a way a daughter doesn’t really realise, until he’s gone. I was a daddy’s girl as a kid. But when teens set it, we grew apart. I never really went back to being a daddy’s girl. In fact, as an adult, we were constantly at loggerheads. We could never really agree on anything. We fought. A lot! The last few years, we went to work together, most of our journeys during our long drive pulled off in total silence, because we had fought. Again.

I miss the fights.

Fathers take care of the smallest thing. Daughters never really have to worry about anything. So if I forgot to fill some petrol into my khatara scooter and was stranded in the middle of nowhere, Papa would be summoned. If I couldn’t stand in a queue to book my tickets from Chennai to Cochin, Papa would mail them to me via post! If I couldn’t find an auto rickshaw after an evening of shopping, Papa would pick me up. I did not ever pay one bill, never did any official paperwork, never stood in a queue, and never cleaned one car or scooter. Sigh, fathers!

And then, he was gone. Just like that.

Suddenly, the leg-pulling is gone. The fights have stopped. The princess-like treatment is over. 

No brother, no uncle, no husband can take that place. Fathers are special like that. 

It’s five years since he’s gone. Many Father’s Day have come and gone. No more for me. Yes, it’s just a silly “day”. 

For me, not anymore.