tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53934035476547733622024-03-14T05:19:55.378-04:00falling leavesMayahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16769831006229293294noreply@blogger.comBlogger152125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393403547654773362.post-34277132137343295912016-08-31T23:08:00.001-04:002016-08-31T23:08:02.033-04:00My house<p dir="ltr">As little girls we are obsessed with playing "house". There is a father, a mother and children. So the pretend play starts with the family waking up, mother making breakfast, sending off the kids to school and father to office. There is a makeshift house made with bedsheets or mom's sarees. There are toy utensils in the kitchen, made of plastic or steel or clay. The children come back from school and go to play. The father is back tired. The mother serves her family dinner in tiny plates, everyone pretends to eat and they all go to sleep. <br>
I am sure there is hardly anyone who has not been part of the "house" drama that we have scripted as children. <br>
I guess the seed of owning your house is sown at this stage. Or the encouragement from parents to own your dwelling. Whatever the root cause, I have carried this dream all my life. And today my dream came true, reinforcing my belief in dreams. </p>
Mayahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16769831006229293294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393403547654773362.post-84924793881832099602016-08-07T22:24:00.001-04:002016-08-07T22:39:59.417-04:00Silences<p dir="ltr">"Do you know how it feels like to keep quiet for like a day? It's not that you don't have anything to say. It's that there is nobody to listen?" said Veena.<br>
Tripti and Neena listened quietly.  Obviously they didn't know. Their lives were filled with families who loved them. Friends, colleagues, parents, in-laws.<br>
"I wake up, make breakfast, sit on my laptop, make lunch, again work, take the kids to classes, make dinner, sleep. During the seventeen hours that I am awake, I am mostly quiet. It is very rare that I express what I feel. That's why I write." continued Veena.<br>
"But that's so unbelievable Veena.. quiet and you? It's hard to believe. You are the one who talks the most amongst us,  right Tripti?"<br>
"Hmm.. she lives in a world that is unknown to us. Yes Neena, she has transformed into somebody else. But I am glad that she is the same old Veena when we are together", said Tripti.<br>
</p>
Mayahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16769831006229293294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393403547654773362.post-85556778010274966532016-08-06T23:33:00.005-04:002016-08-06T23:38:23.550-04:00Vaygeettu entha parupaadi / What plans for the evening ?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Come Friday evening and a John calls a Varghese or a Rajesh and asks this question -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A John - Vaygeettu entha parupaadi? [What plans for the evening]<what evening="" for="" plans="" the=""></what></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A Varghese - Prathyekichu onnum illa.. [Nothing special]<nothing special=""></nothing></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A John - Enna koodiyaalo [Shall we meet up]<shall meet="" up="" we=""></shall></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A Varghese - Aa pinnentha [Sure why not]<why not=""></why></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A John - Ingottu varunno atho njangal angottu varaano? [You guys coming over or should we come over]<you come="" coming="" guys="" here="" or="" over="" shall="" we=""></you></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A Varghese to his wife Daisy - Daisy, ivide vallathum undo di.. [Daisy, is there anything here]<daisy eat="" here="" is="" something="" there="" to=""></daisy></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Daisy - Meen curry undu, kappa undakaam.. [There is fish curry, I can make some tapioca]<daisy -="" can="" curry="" fish="" i="" is="" make="" some="" tapioca="" there=""></daisy></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A Varghese to A John - Enna ningal ingu pore [Then you guys come over]<then come="" guys="" over="" you=""></then></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">If the phones of Indians in the US are tapped over a Friday or Saturday evening, then majority of the conversations would go this way. It could be different languages, but this is the essence of most conversations in 'family sets' that we Indians form in the US.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So what's a 'family set'.. Its a group of similar frequency or like-minded Indians living in a city in the US. Religion is not a restriction. It never is. There could be a Christian, a Hindu or a Muslim. There could be state-wise demarcations. Kannadigas, Malayalis, Tamilians, Andhraites, Bengalis, North Indians (typically anything other than these states are all collectively called 'North Indians', by South Indians like me :); just like anything below Maharashtra and Madhya Pradesh are South Indians for our fellow countrymen in the North!). So where was I? Oh yes, family sets. A typical, individual family set consists of three or four families. Then there are groups of family sets that meet at birthday celebrations, or festivals of India. The size of this family set is kept this way in case this group decides to travel, then the 15 seater van would suffice. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">How are these family sets formed? Since we come from a flourishing social background in India, our hormones are actively trying to find and fit into a family set the moment we step into the United States. There are some hits and misses, but eventually you will find your family set. When you move from one place to another, you hang on to your previous family set but again start looking out for your new one. The forming usually starts with one family inviting you to their house for dinner. This is a major custom here in the US, calling someone home for dinner. You show off your house, keep it impeccably clean, cook the best dishes you know and the spread is enormous. The first few dinners are all polished. If you find your home family set, then you slowly start to unwind. Once gelled into the set, the initial polish wears away. The house is a mess, kids are screaming, you will even do with leftovers.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Do everyone have family sets? No. There are families who live on their own, the only answer to that is, probably they didn't have social circles in India or they have not found their family set yet.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So a typical Friday evening. John comes over to Varghese's house and they call Rajesh as well. Daisy is cooking tapioca and heating up the fish curry. Varghese is washing the glasses and ensuring he has ice stocked up. The cars are lines up in the driveway. John comes, his wife walks beside him, their kids are running into Varghese's house. By the time Rajesh walks in John and Varghese have their glasses filled with Jack Daniels and Club soda. A glass with Jack Daniels on the rocks is waiting for Rajesh. The men sit in the backyard and make merry. Jack Daniels emptying out in no time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The wives are huddled around the dining table, gossiping about a Leela or a Neha, her clothes, her make up, the latest movies, Mohanlal (a Malayali family set) and what not. Some family sets indulge in a game of cards. In between the kids fight, somebody goes to resolve that, to SShhhhhh! the kids, John plays a movie. The kids eat and by the time the husbands' and wives hoolahoo is over, its 1am and the kids are asleep. They carry the kids out to the cars and since the husbands are sloshed, wives take the driving seat.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Same episode, next week. Add John's or Varghese's parents to the mix and you have some good food, better than what Daisy would cook. Maybe there is not so much drinking in the other states family sets and hits the roof in Malayali family sets, because drinking is his birthright! Oh and I missed to mention, if the women folk drink, then the menfolk churn out some margaritas and mojitos. Some evenings are BBQ evenings, with chicken, shrimp, fish, steak, corn and veggies.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">At the end of the day its all about unwinding from a long week with some good food, friends and laughter. Good times the Indian way, on the other side of the globe!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So.. vaygeettu entha parupadi?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
Mayahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16769831006229293294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393403547654773362.post-86360810038724688212016-07-31T01:41:00.004-04:002016-07-31T11:01:17.455-04:00To be or not to be<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">To be or not to be- that is the question</span><br>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer</span><br>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,</span><br>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,</span><br>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And, by opposing, end them.</span><br>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">This is the opening phrase of a soliloquy in the "Nunnery Scene" of Shakespeare's play Hamlet. In the speech, the despondent Prince Hamlet contemplates death and suicide while waiting for Ophelia, the love of his life.</span><br><br>
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">To be or not to be - was a question of death and suicide. As I see people in their late 60's or early 70's, I draw a parallel to this quote from Shakespeare who wrote his in 1600. Now the question is not suicide or death, but to live or die.</span><br>
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br>
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">There are only two paths or perspectives people see life in, as they get to their 70's - Live to Die or Die to Live. And this perspective defines the quality of life they lead, the relationships they have, their every waking moment. </span><br>
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br>
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">I have seen people who are predicting or constantly tapping at an astrologer's door trying to find out when they would die. From their standpoint its preparation for the end. Maybe at their age, then need to know. I don't know if I will want to know. Anyways, so they are told a date or month and year of the end. Then what? The group of people who 'live to die' magnify each miniscule physical ailment as a door to death. They don't particularly do anything significant during the day. They are just killing time, waiting almost impatiently. They wake up each morning, eat three meals a day, take their medicines, sleep, talk to a few people over the course of the day and go to bed at night. They are happy watching the sloppy serials on television and carrying the thoughts and feelings of those serial artists to bed. They choke their life to death.</span><br>
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br>
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">The other category of people 'Die to live'. They know, like the first category, that they have spent a major portion of their life. But they are fearless about the end. They accept the fact that there is an end, however, they are not looking forward to that. They are also eager to know when the end will come, but they live each day. They too wake up, eat their meals, take their medicines on time. The difference is, this group of people, travel, in whatever financial and physical means they can, meet people, read, enjoy their grandchildren, be a part of their life and growing up. They are excited about new things. They want to learn, explore the possibilities in each day.</span><br>
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br>
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">It all about perspective; and which perspective one takes depends largely on the journey a person has had till that stage in life and the situations that he or she is in. However, the core of it should lie</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> in a person's inner belief. </span><br>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">All this rolls back to how one is created. The growth from a cell to human form. The pain of delivering a baby. Learning everything, yes, "everything". Going through human emotions, building and nurturing relationships. Making babies. Shaping them into individuals. Hell! There is a lot one goes through from that tiny cell. Life is precious. We don't become what we become on our own. Its a whole big network of people who shape our lives, play a part in building us cell by cell. Its a magnanimous process, as vast and widespread as the internet itself. So then why waste the precious moments we are blessed with. When we think of it this way, it gives a broader and deeper meaning to life, itself!</span> </div>
Mayahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16769831006229293294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393403547654773362.post-5528254549716979192016-07-23T00:42:00.001-04:002016-07-23T00:42:31.908-04:00Chord <p dir="ltr">Faces forgotten<br>
Words long gone<br>
Look them up here and there<br>
Old pictures and words<br>
Some people exit without a trace<br>
With known intent, sometimes <br>
The chord stays, a thin one<br>
Weathered by time<br>
To remind you of its strength<br>
Long ago. <br>
</p>
Mayahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16769831006229293294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393403547654773362.post-87724811466742717602016-07-14T12:54:00.001-04:002016-07-14T12:54:33.997-04:00The dress<p dir="ltr">Where is that dress<br>
I had left it in the garage<br>
Or maybe at the front door<br>
Just as I was rushing out<br>
I had shed it<br>
It was an obedient soul<br>
Deprived of love<br>
Agreeing more<br>
Arguing less<br>
Customised for here<br>
The land I went to<br>
I didn't need it there<br>
Just my skin was enough<br>
My bare soul<br>
Weathered with love<br>
Affection<br>
It was me<br>
Just me<br>
Now I have come back<br>
And forgot my dress<br>
There was an eruption<br>
A knock on my head<br>
To remember my dress<br>
I found it this morning<br>
Now I am set<br>
My naked soul<br>
Go to bed<br>
Till dawn, for many years<br>
Let my dress protect you<br>
Leave your spirit <br>
Untouched. </p>
Mayahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16769831006229293294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393403547654773362.post-69983571490237401892016-07-09T08:50:00.001-04:002016-07-09T09:21:50.703-04:00Nuts and bolts<p dir="ltr">I found this box in my mother's bag. My mother passed a year ago and while goinggoing through her bag found this box which was once packaged with nuts served on domestic indigo flights. On one of my travels many years ago, probably from trivandrum to bangalore, I had bought this box of nuts for my parents. </p><p dir="ltr">It's contents span a lifetime and attributed to people she holds dear to her heart. </p><p dir="ltr">There is a passport size phot of my brother in Bishop Cottons uniform. The struggle she went through to get him an admission at bishop cottons is something best forgotten. She paid a donation of 5000 rupees way back in 1989, at her own intuition and will so that my brother would get the best education possible.</p><p dir="ltr">The passport photo of me was taken for my engineering college admission, in 1995. Getting me into MIT, Manipal was a big step for her. Payment seat with a fees of 40,000 rupees per year. I can only imagine the jitters she must have had thinking of this colossal amount she had to make every year along with my brothers bishop cottons fees. I got the last computer science payment seat that year. Was she worried about sending me away from her nest, I don't know, I was engrossed in getting that last seat. </p><p dir="ltr">The picture of her and a boy, is before her marriage. She had come to bangalore to help her sister take care of her son, my cousin, Manoj. He remained her first child always. This was probably 1972..</p><p dir="ltr">The next picture is of her, Manoj and his younger brother Babu.. she learnt her first lessons of motherhood from them. They were very dear to her. </p><p dir="ltr">The dice is something I got for her when she came to visit my family in the US, and we went to Las Vegas. Oh! How much fun she had at the slot machines. By then my elder son was born and this memento says "Grandma's casino, Las Vegas".</p><p dir="ltr">The kushtex fabrics book is her phone and address book, her link to the world. This was a complimentary gift from a company whose fabrics my uncle and aunt sold in wholesale at Bangalore.</p><p dir="ltr">
Then her bank card, hospital cards and some papers. She has carried these with her for innumerable years, adding to the collection over the years. These little things mattered to her. Today she carries them in her heart, overseeing each one of us, visiting us, assuring us that she is here, somewhere around us. <br>
Lots of love, to the woman, because of whom, I am, who I am.. </p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivFr_ZBMbB1bCtV1w1WaD9SpCLKxED0WQm094Jcy5KcZ65Ehbm3x9KLVJh4EO5n9hr15PUqSEl1sT3j8wuMfJ4ZwSVva3bx0LKShObdOrLXAXqhRoMTswxzwggqDiS8htHVcGgBPAVdmIZ/s1600/20160709_135927.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivFr_ZBMbB1bCtV1w1WaD9SpCLKxED0WQm094Jcy5KcZ65Ehbm3x9KLVJh4EO5n9hr15PUqSEl1sT3j8wuMfJ4ZwSVva3bx0LKShObdOrLXAXqhRoMTswxzwggqDiS8htHVcGgBPAVdmIZ/s640/20160709_135927.jpg"> </a> </div>Mayahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16769831006229293294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393403547654773362.post-71873391682261458382016-06-29T11:24:00.001-04:002016-06-29T11:24:32.688-04:00People<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
For the past three to four days, I have been spending quite some time in cabs in Bangalore. About three hours a day going places, meeting friends. After a while the ride gets nauseous, but the people I see outside trigger my interest. There are just so many people outside, doing so many things. Each one has a life, each one has a story.<br />
There was this lady who was waiting at the bus stop, with an umbrella to shield her from the rain. I thought she is probably getting back home after a day's work, to her family. Her children might be waiting for her. I wondered how long her bus ride would be. She probably would go home, check her children's homework, cook dinner, feed them and wait for her husband. The same thing tomorrow.<br />
There was this guy getting out of a printing press, with his helmet on, starting his two wheeler. He has this big smile on his face. Probably he got to run an errand, and he could use the opportunity to meet his girlfriend.<br />
The cab drivers driving the cab I was in, they breathe the pollution day after day after day. The windows are rolled down, they bring destinations closer to people seeking them. He is probably going around the city everyday. Same roads, same traffic, same routes, different passengers.<br />
There was this lady walking along the footpath (sidewalk) with a sack on her head. She was dressed in a north Indian attire. A street dog following her diligently, which she was unaware of. She just kept waking, rushing somewhere, with the heavy sack on her head. A few meters away I saw a flour mill, where they powder cereals. Another lady sat there in the same Indian attire. Probably she was waiting for the lady with the sack, and they were taking turns.<br />
These are just few of the hundreds of people I saw on my cab rides. Every person I see on the street, tells me a story. A story of their own, unique to them, me a spectator, more so an imagination freak..!</div>
Mayahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16769831006229293294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393403547654773362.post-74810204135030368272016-06-25T11:59:00.001-04:002016-06-25T11:59:03.018-04:00Seeing her..<p dir="ltr">I was walking towards the exit after my son's sports day events. Suddenly, I saw her. She was right in front of me. In the moment of shock, I didn't even say hello. She didn't wait either. I saw her smile, not at me. I looked at my wife, she was smiling and saying hello. Oh my God! <br>
After I was out of my bewilderment, I told her, "that's her".<br>
"Who?"<br>
"You were saying hello to"<br>
"Who?"<br>
I just looked at her to let it dawn upon her.. and it did.. faster than I thought.<br>
"Ooooooooooh! Oh my God!!! She?? She is the beautiful one? And I knew her all along??"<br>
And she burst into laughter. What was she laughing at?<br>
"I never thought it would be her? I am so happy it's her. She is not beautiful. I always had this complex that she was more beautiful than me, she is not!!!"<br>
Women, and their silly complexes, I thought. <br>
So I saw her, after many years. She still looked beautiful to me. In another time, in another life, maybe... </p>
Mayahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16769831006229293294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393403547654773362.post-74757708906736127062016-06-24T21:04:00.001-04:002016-06-24T21:04:59.105-04:00Going home...<p dir="ltr">The last time this big Bird took me home, the <u>cold</u> body of my mother lay in an ice box, waiting for my brother and me. Her soul gone. The warmth of her embrace now cold from the ice. Her smile faded, forever. I was dreading the journey. I didn't know myself for the moment and the hours afterward I see her. It was the worst day of my life. <br>
It has been a year. During this one year she visited me a few times. I felt her presence as my husband, children and I reunited after my son's week long summer camp. I felt her smiling beside me as I plucked the first vegetable from my garden. I felt her each time I cooked her recipe. I felt her as I sewed my first handbag. I have felt her, more powerful than ever. <br>
This time I am going to help free her soul, so they say. It maybe a ritual, but maybe it will bring closure to the mourning. I don't know, once again, how I will feel. But, maybe it will help me get over the grieving and celebrate her life. I will continue to feel her presence, I know, till my last breath. She will be there with me, holding my hand when I am weak, rejoicing with me at my successes, watching over me and keeping me blessed. <br>
I dread going home, for the first time. It's the first time, that I will be going home without my mother. It's not that thought that I am dreading. When I open her cupboard, will I catch her smell? Will it feel like she is there, yet not there? I don't know. Another uncertain period of life, where I don't know myself. <br>
I miss you Ma, today and everyday for the years to come. I wish I could hug you, just once more.</p>
Mayahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16769831006229293294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393403547654773362.post-88241823223613834692016-06-19T11:14:00.001-04:002016-06-19T11:14:47.263-04:00Getting up<p dir="ltr">There are good days and bad days<br>
Like cancer<br>
Being shoved to a corner<br>
Being pushed down<br>
In spirit<br>
Known faces all around<br>
A word<br>
A gesture<br>
Sometimes there are no walls<br>
And yet I get up<br>
With all my might<br>
Sometimes I hold on to that climber<br>
Little, yet it supports me<br>
There are times when oh my way up<br>
I am pushed back again<br>
Yet I get up<br>
I wail <br>
My heart breaks each time<br>
A little<br>
I sew it<br>
And get up<br>
The halo of love<br>
At a distance<br>
Smiling upon me<br>
Playing a game of mirage<br>
Is it there <br>
Yes it should be<br>
Giving me the strength<br>
Each time<br>
To get up<br>
And run. </p>
Mayahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16769831006229293294noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393403547654773362.post-26416663630014197132016-05-01T16:50:00.002-04:002016-05-01T16:50:27.271-04:00It Goes On - In print <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Hello readers,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">My first book, 'It Goes On', a collection of short stories is in print again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span> </div>
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<a href="http://amzn.com/1533004226"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">http://amzn.com/1533004226</span></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Enjoy reading and post your review here or on the Amazon page.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Thank you :)</span></div>
</div>
Mayahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16769831006229293294noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393403547654773362.post-91778212648967621082016-04-25T21:54:00.001-04:002016-05-01T16:43:38.726-04:00One day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In thirteen years our limbs will be tired
<br />
We will move out of this clockwork
<br />
Sans responsibilities of our little ones
<br />
We will move to familiar lands
<br />
Amidst loved ones and known tongue
<br />
A place where we took flight
<br />
Into our love and our life
<br />
There we will see the rain
<br />
Holding hands sipping our evening tea
<br />
Listen to the birds chirping niceties of their love
<br />
In those quiet evenings we will relive our moments
<br />
Of love.. Of life..</div>
Mayahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16769831006229293294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393403547654773362.post-12941734246442521372016-04-22T19:08:00.001-04:002016-04-22T19:08:13.301-04:00The inner you...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-X7SifNSHk2NYjFXCf8oBQDvdadJJ5cwNx6Tsa0VY9VxzRV67uC9PjkROAXZ0AFt1m2SsalT0a4s_fxoD-kk9rPtcQEHmnLPp6TLERZdmvyTPjYPJk40aXyey-nFg6on5S9v3VIBItGDf/s1600/The%252520inner%252520you_0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-X7SifNSHk2NYjFXCf8oBQDvdadJJ5cwNx6Tsa0VY9VxzRV67uC9PjkROAXZ0AFt1m2SsalT0a4s_fxoD-kk9rPtcQEHmnLPp6TLERZdmvyTPjYPJk40aXyey-nFg6on5S9v3VIBItGDf/s640/The%252520inner%252520you_0.jpg"> </a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsBi8-oXRbGg1r1XK8_ATBrMrZ64xa-HSjerMLByUXVQ4_llE7RSvEwb3Rs2EwqcOtXftRYhWPVDjhid2b8A_0neWVCLwju0ApqBoa_qOXkNipXJmoY5PoM_itTMaCTWzNY-AMA45buGxd/s1600/The%252520inner%252520you_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsBi8-oXRbGg1r1XK8_ATBrMrZ64xa-HSjerMLByUXVQ4_llE7RSvEwb3Rs2EwqcOtXftRYhWPVDjhid2b8A_0neWVCLwju0ApqBoa_qOXkNipXJmoY5PoM_itTMaCTWzNY-AMA45buGxd/s640/The%252520inner%252520you_1.jpg"> </a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV3W9b3Jsbxm7R94FcfnhnyT7lG3w3FL33jyQN2rJGd3ZRuZ6J2_WfuVMUhCAENVAYbBf0RQWJ6DEIF5Pao43zLzRD66Naw3IoRtzP_J63JXgV1QZ5lTWLHwYcDTfwZ5towdZwvrzDK3Le/s1600/The%252520inner%252520you_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV3W9b3Jsbxm7R94FcfnhnyT7lG3w3FL33jyQN2rJGd3ZRuZ6J2_WfuVMUhCAENVAYbBf0RQWJ6DEIF5Pao43zLzRD66Naw3IoRtzP_J63JXgV1QZ5lTWLHwYcDTfwZ5towdZwvrzDK3Le/s640/The%252520inner%252520you_2.jpg"> </a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpd0eK-mmracScQHF-iuuQtrgS6sqHDoxHkfqlV8Mh6UHBtA4fZX62SQh8yj9Qn93Bn-CGVm12RB4vy1wWU9wPTQBwQ1zgxxTQQsFGAYTo97DnpvXslyflRsWgZTh1HG1HVAVR_UIQqk1W/s1600/The%252520inner%252520you_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpd0eK-mmracScQHF-iuuQtrgS6sqHDoxHkfqlV8Mh6UHBtA4fZX62SQh8yj9Qn93Bn-CGVm12RB4vy1wWU9wPTQBwQ1zgxxTQQsFGAYTo97DnpvXslyflRsWgZTh1HG1HVAVR_UIQqk1W/s640/The%252520inner%252520you_3.jpg"> </a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF49JOAzqCPOHVP3gJ5Ic3eq8uVIpknwAo18psZOlR4VIA5AjNSbOJsRHXYvvRRzPdlrLESO7xYDkHl-FtglL1gec9RT_KOgr-kY5FwugxAJNtyEhfTOLO6mQsZMv7iGPqnwEiXyp1CgP1/s1600/The%252520inner%252520you_4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF49JOAzqCPOHVP3gJ5Ic3eq8uVIpknwAo18psZOlR4VIA5AjNSbOJsRHXYvvRRzPdlrLESO7xYDkHl-FtglL1gec9RT_KOgr-kY5FwugxAJNtyEhfTOLO6mQsZMv7iGPqnwEiXyp1CgP1/s640/The%252520inner%252520you_4.jpg"> </a> </div>Mayahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16769831006229293294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393403547654773362.post-33786942072485882412016-04-22T19:05:00.001-04:002016-04-22T19:05:30.477-04:00At the coffee shop...I hadn't seen him in fifteen years. I was amazed at how the thought of seeing him could still send fritters in my stomach. I was nervous like all those times, many years ago, when I waited for him at the entrance of the hostel. My hands were wet with sweat. I was going through the first hi, hello a thousand times in my head. Would he say hello, would I say hi, will he give me a light friendly hug? Will he just shake hands? Will he be as friendly as he used to be or would have marriage made him more formal?
As usual he made me wait, the longest five minutes. I always waited for him back then too. There was a huge clock on the wall, there was a watch on my wrist and a clock on my phone's home screen. They all moved so slowly agonizing my wait and stretching time further.
I was idly looking out of the window when to add to my turmoil he suddenly appeared at my table with the same old big smile on his face. God, the smile that I fell for eons ago. I stood up, just in case he wanted to give me a hug. To my disappointment he said, "hey sit down"..
So those were the first words, no hi, no hello, no handshake, no hug.
I sat down not taking my eyes off his face even for an instant. I hoped I was not gaping and he wouldn't notice that I had butterflies in my stomach. I wanted to appear to be the calm and poised person he would expect me to be after being married to someone else and a mother of three kids. But hell no, how could this guy make me feel this way after all these years? Guess that's what you call first love..
We set off like we had just separated the previous night, first about his travel, then mine, his family, then my family, his children, then my children. There was a lot of catch up conversation. After a while we easily got into talking about the years we spent as soul mates. How friends teased us, the adventures of ladies hostel, night outs at the library, kuchikooing...
As we started talking about the night we separated after college, he gently touched my hand and we grew quiet. Our eyes spoke volumes.. why did we part was the question lingering on each other's mind...
Suddenly he called for the usherer and asked for the bill, my hand still in his. I asked him "are you leaving?".. he remained silent. The bill came, he paid, grabbed my hand and walked out of the coffee shop....
Mayahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16769831006229293294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393403547654773362.post-89371254898839085532015-12-24T15:15:00.001-05:002016-01-03T10:48:20.132-05:00Random thoughts<p dir="ltr"><u>In</u> the end, what school you went to, what degrees you earned, what jobs you had makes no difference. Were you surrounded by people who love you, were you able to return that love, during this whole process were you happy is all that matters. If not, then all you are left with are meaningless numbers and letters printed on paper which can be easily torn. <br>
The people you choose to surround you is the key. If you choose the right people, you have a chance at happiness. If the people you chose are not right but you hold the courage and wisdom to walk away, you still have a chance at happiness. But if you choose the wrong people and cannot walk away, you are screwed. <br>
Life is precious, we don't realize it till we near the end or see a loved one near the end. You have to see death at 15cm normal vision distance to appreciate life. It's funny.. This whole thing called life and all the unnecessary complications we build around it.. </p>
Mayahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16769831006229293294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393403547654773362.post-17256632756062541542015-12-06T22:48:00.002-05:002016-01-03T10:51:47.417-05:00Tamasha<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Compromised lives - that's the movie Tamasha in two words. This post is not a movie review, but an insight into the life that a lot of people live. As depicted in the movie, we are all running a race, we don't know what the race is about, or what it is for, everybody is running, so we are also running. Are we first or second, or ninth or tenth? We don't know. Choose your own race and ace that.</span><br>
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">How many of us are really able to do that? Stop running everyone else's race, and run your own? I don't know, maybe because my outlook is small or because I am surrounded by lots and lots of people who are in the rat race, that I feel that this percentage of people who run their own race is very small. However, something inside me, makes me believe that I am part of the small population that lives compromised lives. </span><br>
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Be yourself - that's the movie Tamasha in two other words. You don't have to change for the world, or do things to please people around you. Believe in your wings and fly. </span><br><font face="Georgia">Like one of those forwards, the birds trust it's wings not the branch of the tree it's sitting on.. </font><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br></span></div>
Mayahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16769831006229293294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393403547654773362.post-64185997370365956722015-11-26T00:57:00.001-05:002015-11-26T00:57:20.074-05:00I see her<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I see her smile<br />
A kind of smile that masks all pain<br />
The broken tooth with signs of yellowing<br />
From age<br />
Her eyes gleam<br />
There is a brightness in them<br />
She is genuinely happy<br />
I see her shrug from the cold wind<br />
As she stands by the snowman<br />
Whiteness like she has never seen before<br />
Pristine beauty like her soul<br />
Her shawl folded in half around her neck<br />
Grey jacket which has her smell<br />
Her hands soft and warm<br />
Her face smooth like ice<br />
I see her<br />
Yes, I see her<br />
From my soul<br />
She took my smile with her<br />
She took my hope with her<br />
She took the warmth from me<br />
And she hides now<br />
I see her on my table<br />
Her reflection in my shadow<br />
I am her flesh and blood<br />
So I see her<br />
It was someone else at the pyre<br />
No it was not her<br />
I know she will come<br />
And I will see her smile, again.</div>
Mayahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16769831006229293294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393403547654773362.post-33852200902487965772015-11-24T23:42:00.003-05:002015-11-24T23:42:45.840-05:00Clothes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">My memory of buying clothes goes back to the vendor opposite my house in Sampangiram Nagar. The guy who owned the shop was Shanthilal. It was a small shop, with a counter in the front. He sat behind the counter, chewing his pan or a red stained mouth, from a pan chewed earlier. Everyday morning like an alarm, he opened the shop at the same time. He had hired a lady to sweep the front of the shop and draw a small rangoli. This lady was old and lived on the money she earned by doing menial jobs for others. She did this for some adjoining shops as well. She came home occasionally and my mother always fed her.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">So Shanthilal opened the shop and sat there waiting for customers. Watching the inflow of customers to his shop and the other shops was an instant timepass for me. I just stood outside the balcony and watched the people who walked into his shop. Evenings were rush hours. He ended up buying the building with two floors above and three adjoining shops, which was a sign that his business was flourishing. The first floor was his residence and he rented out the second floor. When he went for lunch in the afternoon, his wife or son, Mahaveer sat at the counter.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">My mother and I went to his shop once in a while to pick up some socks for my father, handkerchief, towels, or innerwear. The commodities in his shop were expensive, according to my parents, so unless it was really essential, we didn't go in there. When we didn't have the money to pay, he opened his big red book of accounts. There was a page for my father, and if we didn't have money, he would add to the account. Usually we went with hundred rupees when our need was for two hundred.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Beyond his counter there was another room full of shirting and trouser material stacked against the walls. There was a hard mattress on the floor for customers to sit and select the fabric. It was a small room, maybe 8 ft by 8 ft. When he made enough money, he expanded his shop to the next room and started selling salwar kameez, sarees, dress material. Whenever we went in, he would ask my mother, 'Thangam, saree dikhaoo, Indu ke liye salwar kameez, lelo..' 'Thangam, shall I show you some sarees, salwar kameez for Indu'. He was a true businessman.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">My mother's sarees were often bought by my father on some official trips he went to, Calcutta or Orissa. Occasionally they were from our family friends who owned a silk loom. But now, when I think of it, maybe she wanted to buy a few sarees from Shanthilal's shop. I don't know. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">My father bought shirt material, maybe once in a decade from Shanthilal and always gave it to one tailor, all his life. He believed until recently, that those were the only group of tailors who could stitch his shirt and pant the way he liked them. He always had a maximum of three sets of shirts and pants.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">My clothes and my brother's came from Chellaram's, once a year. I think it was for my 10th birthday, that Kids Kemp opened on MG Road. With all the advertisement for Kids Kemp, I forced my parents to go there for my birthday dress. I don't know how heavy it must have been on them, but I remember feeling like a princess, in the red frock with white net all around. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Buying the birthday dress was a family ritual and something I looked forward to. Before my birthday or my brother's we took an auto to Chellaram's. After a lot of searching, I almost always settled on a yellow dress. First they came as frocks, then skirts and blouses, and finally when I was in pre-degree, jeans and blouse. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">As I entered college, the salwar kameez came from the inner streets of Commercial Street. They were always too big for me, blame it on my miniature form. They never made clothes in petites those days, it was all free size, atleast the ones you got from the bylanes of Commercial Street. For t-shirts and pajamas to wear at home and hostel, we went to Burma Bazaar. Not inside the bazaar, but the vendors on the streets around Burma Bazaar. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">As my income grew, I exercised more freedom in the clothes I bought and their price. About three years ago, I switched to Fab India, and that was a lot of freedom. The most fulfilling experience has been buying clothes for my parents. Its not the arrogance, but the fulfillment, that life has come to a full circle in a little way. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Today, I shop from JC Penney or Gap or one of those shops. I can go there anytime I want and buy what I need. But the happiness of that one birthday dress, simply cannot be recreated.</span></div>
Mayahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16769831006229293294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393403547654773362.post-2412697588689730112015-11-21T10:18:00.001-05:002015-11-21T10:18:02.856-05:00From Madhavikutty to Kamala Suraiya<p dir="ltr">I am no biographer, my interest in the author Madhavikutty was a tiny spark when I was a child. My father mentioned that his favorite author was Madhavikutty. When I grew up and started reading I picked up a few books authored by her and couldn't stop myself from rereading. Memories of Malabar is my favorite. My grandmother's house, her poem is the best I have read. <br>
There is some feminine pull I feel towards the lady behind the words. She was just another girl growing up in the safety of her grandmother's house. She had dreams of happiness and much more. What made me curious is why she became Kamala Suraiya. As I read through Memories of Malabar or other writings about her, I realize that she never planned to become Kamala Suraiya. The people in her life and the circumstances that she was subject to forced her to think the way she did and do the things she did.<br>
It is unfortunate that girls who grow up as innocent beings have their feathers plucked out by a man she marries who should be her partner. The trust she places in him, with her whole life is shattered. There are some brave women who fly away before the branch breaks, because they trust their wings. But there are many others who sit there scared that the branch will break and forget they can fly. They were born to fly. They wait there in anticipation that they will be rescued. <br>
We cannot blame them because the people and circumstances in their life has led them to disbelieve in their ability to fly. And these birds become Kamala Suraiya... </p>
Mayahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16769831006229293294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393403547654773362.post-58252220585568520242015-11-16T00:42:00.001-05:002015-11-16T00:42:15.426-05:00Of coffee.. Of chit chats.. Of smiles..<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There is a place far away from where I live now, where the coffee machine works just like it used to, the cafeteria is full of people and voices, there are people standing behind those huge glass windows talking about their woes. Every morning there was an IM with the coffee mug and a question mark. It was endless chatter about work, people, kids, school and what not. After another two hours, there is another IM, this time a group one, with the word 'lunch?'. Tracking down people, organizing the schedule, buying the same old food, or devouring the other's lunch box, and endless laughter and fun. Then there is the evening tea with snacks in our own coffee shop by the lake with plans for the evening or venting out the frustration of the day. It was people, there was a life, where I was surrounded by people. Unlike today, where I sit in my office room. My mother smiling at me from her most beautiful picture. Stacks of paper waiting to be cleared out on my desk. The dim bulb of yellow light, which makes me feel like just shutting down. There is no coffee.. there is no IM.. I have lunch, mostly by myself, either huddled in my seat at office, or on the 4-seater dining table in the corner of my house. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I know its hard to believe, that there is a place far away from where I live now, where I was happy. It was where the people around me, cast a blanket over the qualms of my other life. I lived in the happiness that they created around me, leaving my troubles locked up somewhere. I didn't have to spill out my lows, just sharing my highs and listening to theirs was happiness. There was someone who listened, someone who spoke.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">There is a place far away from where I live now, where people still IM for coffee.. meet for lunch, share scores of laughter and return home to meet again. While I, reminisce in yesterday, trudging through the memories, crawling through the happiness, longing for that place that is far away from where I live now..</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">And yet, a voice from some inner core of me tells me, everything happens for the good and I live in false-belief.. </span></div>
Mayahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16769831006229293294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393403547654773362.post-41329812011383053342015-10-08T23:54:00.001-04:002015-10-09T00:05:06.723-04:00Her..<p dir="ltr">It's been a strenuous three months... without her. Not that I lived with her, but now that I know she is not around she lives in my thoughts more than ever. As I sit down to work, she sits there on my table in a red saree.. A light and shade photograph of her clicked by my father. She looks exactly the way I want to remember her... happy, shy, colorful. This was probably clicked before all her troubles started, her face has a calmness that I have rarely seen in my growing years. Probably that is the reason why I chose this picture.<br>
The toughest day in the last three months was my birthday. I was traumatized for more than a week before my birthday, dreading the fact that I wouldn't hear the wish from the one person I have heard all my life.. Not missing a single one. When I woke up the next day I knew what it meant to overcome a hurdle in life.<br>
Death bring a closure to voices, touch, words, expressions, emotions, sight and so many others that we treasure so greatly during a lifetime. The only thing that death livens up as it comes, is the invisible presence of the person around you. It's not memories but the feeling that the person death took away is closer to you in spirit.<br>
"I miss you Ma" is too small a phrase that fails to capture my emotions over the part three months. I know I will get used to it as there is no turning back time. But I want you to know that I would do anything to get back a few moments with you, as alms... <br>
</p>
Mayahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16769831006229293294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393403547654773362.post-13283495346929466032015-08-11T01:32:00.001-04:002015-08-11T01:52:17.224-04:00Time.. Encouragement.. Love..<p dir="ltr">Many blogs, pictures, videos have made their rounds trying to tell me what I should give my children to make them good individuals when they grow up. There were quite a few things said in different ways that it sometimes left me confused. Being a first time parent with no prior experience like almost everyone, these writeups did intrigue me, lest I may be enlightened. <br>
An incident today, gave me the answers. <br>
My younger son aged 8 is reluctant to try most things, his favourite rejection being vegetables. A little bit of coaxing does get him to try helping us break his resounding No. So this time, it was to try riding his older brothers cycle and be sure that he hasn't lost balance before we buy him his own. His argument was that the handle was too wide, the seat was too high etc., etc. This evening I told him that I would walk behind him if he would try. He reluctantly agreed. When he heard me telling his brother that this was mommy-kevin time, he was on cloud nine. So we set off. The first round on my street was not bad. He spotted a 2 cm high uphill which was too difficult to climb, he didn't know how to make right turns, he walked near a bridge and so on. I just stuck with him and got him home. I managed to coax him into a second round, this time a straight road, halfway to his school. It was much easier this time. He took a right turn without thinking, went uphill at the driveway, rode past a bridge, leaving me way behind. <br>
He was ecstatic. He said, I don't need a new bicycle, I like this one, you can buy Nitin a new one! <br>
As I was walking back home, the beautiful sunset smiling at me, I realised that I helped him overcome his premonitions by spending time with him, providing some encouragement and love. So that's it. Time. Encouragement. Love. He is a more confident person. <br>
I can put this formula to any situation and I think it will work. I am sure somebody has said this before and I have read in one of those how-to-raise-children blogs.. but this instance made it loud and clear...<br>
My children have taught me the best lessons on parenting and constantly remind me that its the little things in life which matter the most!!</p>
Mayahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16769831006229293294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393403547654773362.post-41439831337364561652015-07-29T14:10:00.000-04:002015-07-29T14:10:52.019-04:00The whole... <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Nobody knows you completely. Not one person.. nah!.. Not even yourself. Because you are not who you think you are. Its just a part of you. Who you are is what you are to the people you know and the lives you touch. What you are to the other person is you.. rather a part of you. The emotions, the connect, the conversations is that part of you. And all these parts put together is the real you. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">So I don't have anybody in full. I have only one part of everyone. What they are to me, they are not to another person. The equations are different. What is constant is only the equal to sign. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">So technically, nobody is mine. A part of them is mine. And unfortunately, its not until death tears us apart, that we see all the parts or atleast most of it. When all the parts come together to bid one final goodbye to the person that was.. and this realization dawns on you, that yes, she gave birth to you, your whole is a part of hers, yet, you are only a part of her whole.. </span><br />
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Mayahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16769831006229293294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393403547654773362.post-72123294798784319572015-07-16T18:58:00.001-04:002015-07-16T19:34:05.143-04:00Meenakshi<p dir="ltr">She was the fourth child born to a namboothiri father and his second wife, a nair lady. At the age of 17 she left her small town Eravimangalam in central Kerala to the garden city of Bangalore to help her sister take care of her child. In six months at the age of 18yrs and 3 months she got married to a photographer employed at Visweswaraya Museum. Five years down the line she had a daughter and another 5 years she gave birth to a son. <br>
She strove hard to put her kids in Bishop Cottons School, one of the premier schools in Bangalore. With the meagre salary her husband brought home and the additional extra income from screen printing it was a repeated cycle of rigorous thirty day struggle to make ends meet. But she stuck through it for a long twenty one years. She put her kids through engineering colleges and got them through computer science degrees. When her children graduated, she graduated as well. She cleated ICSE twice in her lifetime. <br>
At the age of 46 she came down with Parkinsons. But that did not deter her spirit. She travelled the world, made five trips to the US, saw the grandeur of Niagra falls, grand canyon, new york, the white house and vegas. She gambled at the casinos on the slot machine and she had so much fun. She saw the arrival of her grandson as he let out his first cry in this world. She cut the umbilical cord. <br>
Through all her troubles, she smiled. She lived by example and showed us that there is no mountain too big, no storm too rough, no day that you cannot get through. Courage was her middle name. <br>
I have never experienced death this closely. It does bring an end of sorts. But it is not the end. She is here, in this house, around me, with me, watching over me.. like how i cannot touch happiness, i cannot touch pride, i cannot touch her. But she is here, very much here..<br>
I don't know where she went, however, i know she is happy. She is at peace finally. She has no troubles no sorrows no pain. Her limbs are not bitten by Parkinsons anymore. She is free. She is smiling and in a very happy place. <br>
Like every mother and daughter we have fought. Arguments, periods of not talking, patching up. But at the end I realise that there is nothing of that. It's just the happy moments..<br>
I know the void will never fill but it makes me happy that at this very moment and for all the moments to come she has only happiness..</p>
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