Tuesday 6 March 2012

Wonder Years

Precariously balancing on the edge of the aluminum ladder, after several unsuccessful tries with a long stick, I pulled myself up and wiggled into the duct-like passage. Came out disheveled, but finally pulled out the bag that’s been on my mind longer than I care to admit. It was heavy and I was as excited as I am when I have unending dessert options! Dragged my colossal haul to a corner of the house and settled amidst the comforting memories.

That was at 12 in the afternoon. Fast forward to 5 in the evening, my brother and I are laughing our stomachs hollow (me, quite literally on an empty stomach) at a super scary baby picture of me. No kidding. I was a scary baby. Eyes too big for the face, and add to that hideously frilly frocks and dresses. It’s like a china doll from those scary movies is unblinkingly staring at you. I have the potential to scare the bejesus out of somebody. I’m glad; some talent. If I was a scary baby, I haven’t seen any kid cuter than my brother. I swear. I’m saying this impartially. Maybe even a little reluctantly. He’s a born poser, like my mother and has got the math-whiz brains of my father. Me? I’m considering the possibility that I was adopted.

There were a zillion more photos – of my parents’ wedding (me absent), mom’s first karvachauth (me absent), playschool, all our vacations, trips to temples, chirstmas parties, holi, Diwali, birthday parties – of all the cousins, raksha bandhan, everything before 2000 and a little up to 2003. Since I’ve been pretty much jobless having taken unnecessary leave from work for inconsequential exams, I thought that instead of wasting yet another day on sleeping and eating on my laptop, I’d look through these photographs.

Irrespective of the bag-full of photos, I remember very little of pre-teen me - just a few incidents. Individually, they might not make sense but put together, there is fluidity (eh, critics?) in the awesome tale of my childhood. Here, I shall try to be as chronological as possible in my reminiscence of those few far and in between childhood memories:

I remember journeying from one make-believe city at the right of the sofa set using a threadbare ottoman to reach the other end where my mum waited to spoon-feed rajma chawal to me. The self-made game was to reach her without putting my feet on the floor. I don’t think she understood that; or cared. She hates spoon feeding. She would get irritable and hurl expletives only like a Punjabi mother can. She only spoon-fed me because the rest of her sisters-in-law did their children. The perks of a joint-family lifestyle, I tell you!

When my kid brother was born, I remember holding that tiny little thing and saying, “He is so pink!” Later, I also suggested that he be named Mickey Mouse when all the elders congregated in the “sitting-room” to jot down baby names. I remember stealthily creeping into the room together with my cousins where he was peacefully asleep and pulling the crib net off so he would wake up – something mom had specifically warned us against. I remember feeling terribly guilty about that; worrying all the while whether mosquitoes were hovering around my tiny brother because of us.

I love my cousins. I’ve grown up playing lagori, Simon says, red letter, land-water, hide-and-seek, treasure hunt and what-not with them. I am extremely lucky to have not just one, but three loving brothers and five beautiful sisters.

My eldest brother, he’s an angel. Once, aggressive me bit him; not like a tiny kid’s peck, but a piranha’s bite. A deafening scream; and then I ran. Ran for my life. Expecting him to chase me and pay me back in stones. Panting, I hid in our garden, the farthest I could get from him. Hours passed, he never followed. I thought he’s gone a step further – complained to mom; or worse, to badimamma. All day, I was so scared, waiting for the blow that never came. He forgave me. Just like that. That was just the beginning of his unending generosity to me. My brothers are my 3 a.m. friends. I trust them with my life.

As a kid, I think I would look up to my elder sisters; I still do. So probably whatever they said was gospel truth to me back then. My sister fooled me into believing that the best part of the bread was the sides. She always fed me the brown sides of all her sandwiches because she disliked them. And guess what, eventually, I developed a taste and now the sides ARE the best part of the bread to me; in fact I actually dislike white bread.

I was barely four when we shifted out. I didn’t understand much of what was happening or why and I thought shifting meant a bad thing. Our first separate place, albeit temporary, was quite far from my joint-family home. When badepapa dropped me at the depressing apartment and was about to leave, I hugged him, cried uncontrollably and just wouldn’t let go of him. I couldn’t believe he was leaving us. He told me not to be silly and that he would come the next day to pick me up for school. After a lot of tugging, I was forced to let go. Unless I’m mistaken, badepapa had tears in his eyes too. He left hurriedly. He did come over the next day; and the day after that. My heart slowly healed; my maternal uncle had come to stay with us for a while and so I didn’t have to miss badepapa all the time. Mom forced me to go out and play with my “friends” in the building. I hated them; the bitches were nothing like my sisters.

Of course, as time passed, things got better; I made a few friends and even started paying attention to school. But my best friends remain my cousins. I still cherish my every visit to them – discussing books and movies with my two beautiful younger sisters, seeking work and college advice from my benevolent and patient brothers, teasing, taunting, laughing at each other, and the unparalleled motherly love of my badimammas and chachi. Family - I didn’t realize it was so important to me till I finished this post.

I could go on, but I have to start packing for my trip to vaishnodevi with badepapa and badimamma :)
See you soon,
Wannabe Wayfarer.

Saturday 3 March 2012

My Induction (to Social Networking)

Like the blogosphere, I’m new to twitter. And thinking to myself, why didn’t I join this earlier? Sometimes, however, constant re-tweets - from celebs and regulars alike - endorsing other users or funny quote handles, seeking more followers, etc. gets really annoying. And, it’s creepy (also a little curious, I admit) when some porn star follows you on twitter the very first day you join. But I’m new. I’m beginning to learn to block, trend and sieve only that what interests me. Notwithstanding, Twitter, like Wordpress and Blogspot, is abundant with interesting stuff. So many amazingly talented people in the world! I’m intimidated, and inspired. This week was a complete data overload on my tiny brain. I have been introduced to a dozen of refreshing blogs and this blog-reading is pretty addictive, I must say. So obsessed was I that I did not study a word for my B.Com exam (not that I would have anyway but it’s nice to have something else to blame that on instead of just my lack of interest). But, by midnight tonight, brain server crashed. Everything I read became one unending string of incomprehensible letters and similar sounding words and ideas. My eye capillaries are on the verge of bursting too, probably. So I think I’m going to take it slow now. Back off a little. Maybe study for these exams.

The highlight of my three-day presence on Twitter –
http://55words.blogspot.in/2012/03/theme-10-skyscrapers.html (I'm @hersheyka) Okay, it’s not a big deal but, I’m vain that way.

I have a few people to thank for supporting and orchestrating my presence here. You're reading this post. Thank you :)

Signing off,
Wannabe Wayfarer.


(Side Note to my one regular not-so-anonymous follower who religiously marks my every post “indifferent”: Still a wannabe I be. xD)

Thursday 1 March 2012

Our Unspoken Mutuality

Every morning when I wake up,
I secretly hope to myself
That today, everything will be fine.
That today, we won’t argue.

No! I don’t understand you
Each time I try, I let you down.
How can I be there for you,
When you don’t even need me?

I can see that you love me
You really do.
But you love yourself more
And I can see that too.

When you love me, I hate you;
Because I think I’m undeserving.
When you hate me, why would I love you?
So I hate you anyway.

I do all I can to keep you happy;
But it’s never enough.
So sometimes, I get frustrated
And just stop caring.

Not the victim, you’re a predator;
Feeding on my slavery and my fear.
If I’m a burden, a pain, a curse,
Why won’t you leave me? Or let me go?

I lack the patience and love that you need
I’m selfish, like you
And the powerless coward that you call me;
If upto me, I’d run away – leave you to bleed.

Yes, I know. You’re weak,
Sensitive and fragile
And that it’s beyond your control –
Your scathing remarks, the ill-speak.

This is probably what you think of me too
We’ve grown on one another, that much is true.
Ironic then that I still want to love you
Though now I’m not sure what love is.

Maybe it lies in our efforts to stay together.
This is our love – our unspoken mutuality;
I love you
Because you love me too.
- Wannabe Wayfarer.