Perfect Honeymoon

A sharp wind whipped through the pavement with plastic bags and papers striking on our faces. Thinking over the warning my wife has given about the climatic conditions of Ooty in the month of November before than we started this tour, I thickened my thought of peeking at her. The cold wind proved nothing else but the harbinger of downpour on that hill town. My eyes were searching for a safe place to recess in.

I could find a bush at last that could provide us a perfect niche to evade this spine chilling wind. Mustering hard feelings, I dared to have a look at her face. Her blenched face reflected total disagreement jeopardizing my time frame of this setup.

“ Well, do you like to have a cup of hot coffee? ” – broken the ice with my fragile words. She was staring down at a fresh twig just fallen down from the nearby Eucalyptus tree.

“ I’m not insane to have a cup of cold coffee in this bloody weather ” – she murmured.

Her words mowed me more than this cold wind. I took away my heels to look for a coffee shop nearby. Cafes are limited in numbers inside the Botanical garden. Plunging my palms in to my trousers, I searched for a café. Finally I could see smoke billowing with a sweet aroma at the east corner of the garden. Flicking out few bucks, I managed to get two cups of steaming Coffee. In this compelling gesture of carrying cups, my hands felt the blows of chillness at the back and hotness in the chest. Worsening the situation, it started drizzling.

In distance I could see my wife accompanied with a freak old lady draped in white sari. With my own inherited thoughts of that lady, I neared them. “ We worship Pancha Pandavas ” – her weak words astonished me. Her lure accent of macaronic language made me to refer my brief knowledge of varied intonations. Hardly could I figure out that for it sounded more like the language of “Kuruvikara kootam” – the local nomads in the city. Her language too had ebb of Kannada. My wife posed me a confused look when I reached them. Slipping down a cup of coffee to my wife, I had a close look at the old lady. Her countenance reminded me of a Sorceress whose story I have studied during my childhood days. With “pambadoms” drooping down her elastic earlobes and her strand braided around the ears, she beamed at me. Her white sari with tasseled ends got deft embroidery in the corner.

“Amma, who are you”, I asked coldly.

“I’m a Toda Woman dwelling over the top of that hill”-her hands pointed out the pinnacle, half covered with the milky mist, where none dare to go.

Having read about Todas from the books, I was more enthusiastic to know more about them. My wife was staring at the embroidery of the woman’s sari. I prepared to ask more questions about Todas.

“What is the main occupation of your people? ”, I asked her

“We rear up cows and bullocks and they are considered sacred in our part. We sell dairy products and it take care of our income”, She answered gazing at my wife’s chudidhar.

Pausing for a moment, she continued: “We worship Bull’s head”.

Making out the codes of eagerness on my face she asked whether we wanted to accompany her to her settlement. No sooner did she ask, than I started nodding my head to accept her proffer. My lightning decision did not even have consent from my wife. She still was staring at the woman’s sari.

Sipping down the cups of coffee, we pursued the lady with an avid look of enthusiasm. The path was muddy and more slippery that my wife got to take off her strapped heels. The old lady crept up easily, prodding down the climbers with a stick in her hands. I could see my partner clomping down the path, as she was unaccustomed to walk like this. A scent of medicinal flora swept crisply predicating the flourish ness of the hills strongly. The chirps of the unknown but familiar birds, reverberating between my partner and me, got disrupted when we walked in perfect osculation. Scaling the peak of the hill, we were breath taken to view the gargantuan scale of Eucalyptus trees herding the steeps at different altitudes.

The cold weather was more severe over the top and my wife could not help snuggling up my shoulders. We walked towards a gate of a stockade that boasted a board saying, “Visitors are not allowed inside”. We stopped entering the gate with reading the barricade board. A mixed feeling of fear and anger grasped its way through my nerves. The old lady stepping ahead turned back and grinned clumsily.

“Come inside babies; this is our village”, she bleated loudly.

Declinations on this moment appeared to be absurd and far from considerations as we were more than half way to the village. I summoned my wife and we stepped in to the fence. The houses appeared similar to Wigwams in shape but these were different in their roof and wall texture. Bamboo sticks were bent craftily to shield the roof. The doors were at very low attitude that a person entering the house should crawl down. I was tempted to have a look in to their houses but to my dismay most of the doors were shut. But I managed to find a house at last with door opened. With dark shades reining the room I could see only the floor of the room. Half the portion of the floor was dumped up with cow dung and maggots were swarming over that. A stench of half moist dung irritated my nostrils and made me to feel nausea. A quern was left in proximity to the dung with half ground grains in that which were too swarmed with flies. There was a structure, which looked different from the rest of the houses. To our astonishment, there was a seasoned head of the bull hanging in its entrance. The door of the house was closed.

“Amma! What is this place?”

“Oh! This is the temple of Pancha Pandavas. Thambi give adorations; you can succeed in your deeds”, saying that she knelt down like a mantis.

When I stepped forward, my wife grasped my hands tightly and gave a stern look.

“Mohammed! Shall we move from here?”-Her voice sounded with pain.

The old lady stood back and turned towards us.

“Do you want something to eat? ”, she asked looking at my wife. We nodded declining her offers.

A bare bodied man in this bloody weather crawled out of one of their so-called houses was very much puzzling to see us. His squinted eyes bluffed us; whether he was looking at me or at my wife. The old lady dragged me to that guy.

“He is my cousin Ranga. He owns two cows and five bulls. He is one of the richest here”

My wife chuckled behind me. Ranga stared at her briefly. He started bawling at the old lady with his hands pointing at us in a lingo unfamiliar to both of us. The old lady shown great anger on her facet and replied to him at high pitch. A peremptory small girl ran from the mist and conveyed some message to both of them in gasps. The news that was brought by the girl enlightened both of their faces.

“Come with me children. You have brought us good news”

“Mohammed we got to go back to our room. The weather is getting worse” my tenacious wife tightened her grasp.

A sudden uproar of ululation, deafening our ears, echoed in the deep mist of the village. I could feel a knot in my stomach. The old lady once again got hold of my hands and dragged me behind heaps of straw and cow dung. A group of bare bodied men and white sari clad women were dancing there, hopping their feet one after the other. The old lady too joined their ritual dance. We neared them with thumping heart and shaking legs.

 A stench of fresh blood wafted through the mist. We craned our head to have the better view of the object around which Todas were gathered. A cow was lying in the bloodshed straddling its legs with a calf near its rear. The slithery looking calf tried hard to stand up and each time ending up in vain. Few of the Todan women poured water over the calf to wash off the smeared blood. The old lady handed us a wooden bowl of yellowish liquid.

“Drink it children; drink”

“I don’t need it Mohammed” my wife trembled.

“Drink it babies or else you will commit a sin of God”, Old lady warning words irritated me.

“Amma can you tell me at least what this is?”

“Foremilk; this cow’s first milk after giving birth. We consider this milk as Ambrosia here. Drink it dears”

The sour taste of the milk sickened my appetite and got to hold my breath to empty the bowl. My wife vomited on having a gulp and chucked away the bowl, holding her stomach. A surge of trauma filled the shaggy crowd and their looks congealed both of us. Ranga emerged from the crowd swiftly and pushed my wife wildly onto the ground. Not giving me a second to realize the situation, he hit me on my face with a wand. I fell on the ground jagging my lips harshly with my teeth. The old lady screamed and plucked the wand from Ranga. She started slapping Ranga repeatedly. The infernal moments did not held me back from lifting my wife from the ground. Ranga’s barbaric attack drove me amok instantly for my eyes searched for any sort of hard things lying on the ground. A broken log piece lured me very easily and came into my hold in no time. I thrashed down Ranga onto the ground without giving a second thought.

“Children, go out of the village; Or else you are going to have tough time now” Old lady’s words brought me pain.

We ran across the muddy alleys that messed up with the recent downpours. My wife could not hold her tears. She struggled to cope up with me on her bare feet; She left her strapped heels back in the village. After undergoing an arduous task of fleeing the village, we managed to come out of the main gate. A forest Officer, happened to drive in his jeep, seen us coming out of the settlement of Todas.

“Trespassers are not allowed inside this settlement Sir; I fear you both have to come to the Station with me!” the mustached Officer signaled us to get onto the jeep. The village at the back started to be disfigured with eclipse of mist. Seated next to my wife, I dared not to peep at her face again.

(The above post is a semi-fiction, published by me in sulekha.com in January, 2006 )

The boy

The nimbus clouds were hanging over Nagercoil shading the mid noon into a moment of twilight. The humidity in the air was harbingering a heavy rain in less than a minute. The people were busy in the spur-of-moment purchase as the following day would be Diwali. The bus stand in Nagercoil was thronged to the extent of suffocation and the buses were impregnated with passengers slinging on all possible niches of the buses.


My mind was looking for a cheap comfort of getting two seats in parallel so that I could sit alongside of my wife and daughter (she was 3 years old then). The minutes were merging into hours in this futile craving and a drop of rain on my nose signified that I have saved enough trouble for my small family for the following hours. We boarded a Chennai bus (travelling via Madurai) and to our expected dismay found two seats separated by a furlong.

I ended up sitting few seats in the front away from my wife and daughter. I was totally unhappy. The bus was hawked down with numerous vendors selling nuts, newspapers, water bottles and what not. I was not interested to buy anything as my simple wish was not fulfilled.

There was a moment when a boy, who himself was drenched in rain but cared to wrap the books in plastic cover, approached me. He was trying to sell me few books which I was not interested to buy. His book range was boasting some rhymes books, learn-Indian-languages-in-30 days, some kolam (rangoli) books, etc,.

"Anna! (brother in Tamil) please buy some books"

I was remaining silent and he started pestering me. I started pitying him and grabbed few rhymes books and kolam books and displaying from distance to my wife, who was sitting few seats at the rear. She was just turning her face away from me as she was at the verge of anger, as I was seeing her being questioned by an old lady seated besides her. I told that boy that I did not want to buy any books from him. He was not giving up.

"Anna atleast buy these kolam books for anni (he was mentioning about my wife)"

I just tried giving him few coins so that he would move away from me. He was totally annoyed with that and refused to accept the coins except for I buy some books. As the bus driver boarded the bus, the boy was forced to get down the bus; however I have managed to thrust two five rupees coins, which in haste he accepted.

After a while when the bus stopped in Virudhunagar (mid-stop for refreshments), we got down the bus. I could see one rhymes book grabbed carelessly by my daughter. My wife was mentioning that the boy left the book in to the arms of my daughter before getting down the bus.

Pic. Courtesy : Google Images

Lady with chequered shoes

"Are you sure? I just can't believe that they are prostitutes" a wave of ecstasy has started ebbing in my stomach. I was wishing the words of roommate to be true as the green devil in me has started arraying fantasies in my utopian world of imagination.

My friend, as he was slipping into casual dress, looked at me briefly and asked, "Why that glitter in your eyes on hearing this, Mohammed?"

"Oh nothing! I would assimilate this too as an inevitable element of Metropolitan life". Those words of me were rushing to prevent my friend from suspecting me that one day I would be seen knocking at the door of our neighbours, a bunch of Russian prostitutes. They have recently moved into flat 402.

Life was not so interesting on the floor of our Black Tulip Apartment, as I have expected earlier, save the moments of occasional share-smiles with those Russian ladies in the elevators. Most of the times, I was too tempted to talk with them more than the greeting words. My complex mind, which was seasoned in my country life, had always been a hindrance in such occasions. My eyes were always lowered in the presence of those ladies. I started remembering the colors of their shoe pairs and at one instance, I could recognize the ladies by their shoes. Amidst of all the pairs, my eyes got glued to a pair of shoes with chequered design. I used to laugh to myself over the absurdity of the shoe designer for chosing such a design for ladies footwear. He should have had a domestic feud with his wife or should have blasted by his boss on the day of designing such a lifeless pair of shoes. The owner of these shoes was a thin lady who was always looking impeccable dresses.

"The thin lady? She's Alina", my roomie, Wassim was sounding irritated over my recent curiosity over the neighbours.

"How did you collect their names?"

"I just asked them. You don't want to roll cart wheels to know anybody's name in this city. Go to bed. I've got a project visit tomorrow"

The next day evening, I met Alina in the elevator. That was the usual time, she used to go for her 'duty'.

"Alina?" I cracked the ice atlast.

"Me Elina. No Alina", her bad English eccentrically encouraged me from that day on. I used to have monosyllabic dialogues with her during our confined spaces within the walls of elevator. The second reason for such short dialogues, other than her bad English, was the time constraint, we had. The 20 seconds travel time, were just enough to share only brief dialogues. I started developing a good acquaintance with Elina.

It was a Saturday morning. Like anyother first day of the week, I started to my office with malice. As the doors of elevator opened, Elina emerged. She was in a very bad shape. Her eyes were swollen out of crying, her facet was reddish than usual. She was uncontrallably sobbing. As she saw me, she started howling and her words were broken. I could not understand anything as she was speaking to me in Russian. All I could understand was she she had a bad 'client'. As she walked past me, I did not fail to notice her ugly gait. She was unable to walk properly. As the doors of elevator were closing in front me, I spotted blood spots on her white skirt.

I did not see her for few days. I started worrying about her and dared not to enter her room or ask her friends about her.

After a month, while I was returning from work, I saw a tiny figure on haunches near the garbage container at our building parking. As I neared, I understood that it was Elina. She was inspecting the garbage container as her long fingers were clenching a small soft doll.

"Elina! How are you?" I could not resist my anxiety.

"Mohammed! see. This for my daugher Ursula" she was exhibiting the small doll in the twilight. My eyes were instantly clouded to witness her motherly love. Also, I was exposed to such a strange form of motherly love in the heart of a demeaned lady. In silence, I raised my thumb and uttered an another monosyllable to Elina, "Great".

My mind has already discarded the slightest lust that I had possessed over Elina. From that day on, I envisaged a small girl lurking in the shadows of Elina. There were a tiny pair of chequered shoes on the feet of Ursula.

A Beacon of light

About two weeks back, I came across an article in a local weekly (Friday, Gulf News, UAE) about a mother of two children, who is balancing her life on the needs of her children. Sandhya Perera, a Srilankan mother, had given up her job in a bank so as to dedicate her entire attention towards her daughters. There is no wonder in this story as numerous women who were working either before marriage or before child birth are bidding adieu to their promising career for the betterment of their families. In the group of these house wives, Sandhya is special as both of her daughters are special needs children.

Again, Sandhya's story could have paralled with stories of mothers with special need children but for the courageous compassion with which she has adapted her life. Her one daughter, Dilni has cerebral palsy and the other daughter, Dilani has acute learning difficulties. Sandhya has not taken a year or two to come out of the grief to bite the reality of her fate. She admitted her daughters at a Therapy centre and taken up a job in a reputed bank in Dubai. Her entire life got enlightened in a single moment when she came across a poem written by Edna Massimilla (the author of much famous book, Heaven's very special child & the family). The following words of Edna has had severe impact in the life of Sandhya Perera.

A meeting was held, quite far from earth

"It's time again for another birth"

Said the Angels to the Lord above,

"This special child need much love"

Her progress may seem very slow,

Accomplishments she may not show

And she'll require extra care

From all the folks she meets down there

She may not run or laugh or play

Her thoughts may seem quite far away

In many ways she won't adapt,

And she'll be known as handicapped

So let's be careful where she's sent

We want life to be content

Please, Lord, find the right parents who

Will do this special job for you

They will not realize right away

The leading role they're asked to play

But with this child sent from above

Comes stronger faith and richer love.

And soon they'll know the privilege given

In caring for this gift from Heaven.

Their precious charge, so meek and mild

Is heaven's very special child.

A person, whose mind is hoavered with questions for God for why he or she is chosen for the fate of breeding a special need child, read this poem. Sandhya understood that she is one of the chosen mothers gifted with these children to be taken care not with mere attention but with great attention. She gave up her banking job and pursued an international diploma in special needs education. Having reached upto the doctorate level, she is now working at Dubai Autism Centre dividing her life equally between her daughters and the children of same nature.

I do not want to share in this blog, all the dilemmas and sacrifices that she has encountered as I would be sounding more like Suchitra Bajpai, who has reported about Sandhya in this weekly. The lesson that I have learnt from Sandhya's life is that we as parents do not want to take pride with the fact that God has given us healthy children. The Almighty has not chosen us. Or anyone who is reading this blog is having a special need child, I invite you to add a fourth dimension to your life with the words of Edna. Or anyone, who is reading this blog is having a special need sibling, please remember that you possess the precious human being as your brother or sister. Or anyone, who is at the verge of failures, learn life from the life of Sandyas. God has not created anyone or anything without purpose. Also, if we are destined to have a sorrow in life, rather than wailing on the Toilet floor, we should toil to understand "God! why me?". I am sure that we will get an answer.

In my journey, Sandhya has implanted the seeds of hope and empathy. Sandhya Perera, I salute you, Senora.

(Image Courtesy : Friday, Gulf News)

(Poem Courtesy : http://www.downsyn.com/)

Marriages overrated

I was busy rolling the mouse wheel in hunt of facts and factors about Swine flu. The aroma of steaming coffee and Hugo fragrance of a female colleague did not plea my dire attention, as like any other days. A rollicking colleague of me, working in other department, was whistling for a Rihanna's hit. He has observed the advertisement slot for shadi.com, flickering in the right-end of my web page.

"Yo mate! can you click on that link?" his morning snack bar was precisly touching my monitor.

I tried to veil the wrath on my face by raising the coffee mug close to my mouth. I clicked the tab and a new window popped-up like a balloon.

"Is that the site for dating Indian girls?"

"Not really, it is an Indian matrimonial site for searching brides and grooms"

"Bridles and brooms?" that far-eastern Asian guy was smirking with his words.

I was totally displeased with his assertion and not in the mood of starting a conversation to hear his dopey explanations in the morning. My mind is bemused with the deadly pandemic spread and the call to protect my dear-ones. At the same time, I could not defy my wonder for his wits.

"Aiee Mohammed! Why not you speak today?"

"Mike! What are those bridles and brooms?"

"Indian marriages unite bridle in the name of bride with man and broom in the name of groom with woman. After marriage, either the brides keep the bridles on men or the grooms become the brooms of women"

"Your words are offending me Mike. Don't you dare to debate with our customary marriages? What do you expect off a good marriage in your dictionary then?"

"Marriage is the last feat that I would like to accomplish before I see my coffin. What matters to me is relationships (note the plural lingo). Marriages should be the fruit of good relationship. As for you, marriages are like the fruits that you prefer to buy in the markets. They sour most of the times. Grow up Mohammed", he punctuated his statement with a gurgle and started gobbling his snack bar.

"Mike! Would you exuviate your skin if you don't like? Will you give up your life, that God has bestowed on you, for all your failures? Very rarely you would see you a victim and that would be your end. In the same way, we seldom give up on our relationships. A bond is made out of marriages. We mutually sacrifice for each others until our relationship reach a saturation point. Sometimes, the relationships may be on rocks, but once there is a perfect match-point of emotions, our life is heaven"

I saw the deposit of sugar at the bottom of his glass tea-cup. I fetched the cup from his hand and stirred with a spoon. I gave back the cup to him and told, "Mike! old beliefs should not be left deposited at the bottom of your heart. Stir up the same to add a new tang to your acculturated life, like this yellow tea"

Mike was glaring at me thorugh his bespectacled eyes and nibbling to the last bite of his breakfast. I found that my reply has directed the argument to nowhere. The moment was sinking with Ilayaraja's score of an old Tamil song and the words were clear,

"Ore veenai, ore raagam (Same Veena, Same rhythm)"

I asked him, "Do you understand?"

He nodded in refute and with that I told, "Even if you understand this language, you won't understand the meaning of these words. Grow up Mike"

The Can Collectors

One can see this un-uniformed worker meandering down the streets of Sharjah in all weathers of the emirate. He do not have pre-defined work time or any work culture. His business is not capital-oriented whereas it involves daily returns. He is the magician who turns trash to cash.

You can just pass-over him by giving a "kalli-walli" looks. It was hard for me to think any little of him as I always look through his shadows. In a can-collector's shadows, should be lurking, his ailing mother or his loveable wife with kids or sometimes an unmarried sister for his support. Edify me any other reason on earth that drives him to roam around the garbage canisters in these inclement weathers. The sagging ends of the black garbage bag on his cycle back would announce his poverty. The drooping stuffs are always not chershable to mind, save the branches carrying ripen fruits. It is a symbol of yielding, if not out of its wish it should be out of impuissance.

A small 12 Oz Pepsi-can crushed by the clenched fists promises him more than to anyone. The small can is the diamond that he finds in the garbage mine. It is perceivable that he would abhor the food remains and bloody tampons as like others. I often wonder what would be his state of mind while he stirs the dirty deposits. Does he thinks that the sunny days are yet to come in his life? Does he thinks that the residents should drink more carbonated drinks in lieu of all those warnings? Does he thinks that what if milk is sold in tin cans? He searches his fortune beyond the swarming flies and obnoxious stench. But he never complains.

I have tried numerous time to crack up a dialogue with these men to hear the stories behind them which urge them to prefer this "profession". Never have they given me a chance to do that as they seldom maintain their eye-contact with anyone. They are so timid and succumbed to their feeling of humiliations.

These scavangers, by sorting out the recyclable cans, minimize the loads on Municipality sorting lines and thus reduce the costs of plant. They benefit others by making their fortune. In this aspect, they are to be highly regarded than anyother white-collar employee who does not hesitate to tumble down others to secure his seat.

As Oscar Wilde says, these Can-collectors are in the gutters but they are looking at the stars.

(Pic: Illustrative purpose only; thanks to Gulf News)