I wanted to write words so
passionate that they would be burnt
at birth,
above flags and cloth-stuffed human beings.
I wanted to speak in tongues so convoluted that
the Holy Spirit himself would have trouble discerning
a thesis.
And the tip of my pen would be too frail to hold up the weight of my thoughts.

And if I ever felt like descending from the white mare I was on,
the world would be too bland to suit my palate and I would need a cleanser so unlike the Calvados Sorbet the old chef recommended.

No, this is not a poem. This is a freaking epilogue.
Remember?

The words with which those glasses cracked
when using tape was a fashion faux-pas.
Remember?
when reality took over orientation and disoriented became too
unfashionable of a term
and dreamers went to a hell
that they themselves dreamt up.
Remember?
when you thumb wrestled adulthood and
lost.
Remember?
when the mirage of intellectualism became so foggy
that it resembled nothing more than a fudged up
closet-Marxist with a love for Apple products standing up for
the children of a Palestinian mother he
unwittingly
paid to kill.
Remember?
that first time a single personal thought took over
dreams of world peace and economic solutions for the
children of the world in the third internet universe
when personal sadness had more value than a
collective grief.
Remember?
the first time you stopped thinking
that time you sat in a subway in the winter without a single thought of the
sorry plight of the pregnant woman next to you with a
torn winter jacket
because you were too busy drowned
in self-pity.
Remember?

And I’d admire those intellectuals
so much.
I wanted their frankness, their
bold ways of fighting the world with nothing more than a feather’s
ink.
But, the one time I was bold enough to be bold- I learned it cost
too much. Because this isn’t a freaking war:
the choices don’t have labels, and mistakes are made in
the best kind of smelly Sharpies. And people like me
only have the hair.

I wanted to shake the world with
my thunder and instead
allowed myself to drown
behind its
godly-manicured fingernail.

No, this is not poetry. It’s only an epilogue.
And no, I do not want your
yellow

But the thing about colors, I’ve learned, is that they come and go. And for every utterance of never and forever, the punishment comes with another stroke of gray. And as that paintbrush pushes you forward, your back bleeding against the rough canvas, maybe- just maybe- you’ll be the one adding that bit of color.

Besides, what’s wrong with it? Why are we so scared about not having colors? It’s almost like that fear I once had of that room in my childhood home, which for some reason became a lair of ugly monsters and bedtime nightmares long after the sun set. Like that fear I had looking down from top of my high school gymnasium’s set of bleachers. Irrational enough to make one scream but passive enough to be neatly tied into a little knot in my never-flattening stomach.

No, the fear is not for the lack of colors or the lack of light even. The fear is stems from not knowing what is inside. Perhaps I should have gathered the courage and looked. Perhaps I should have jumped down like all my friends.

But the fear.. the fear is secondary. I simply wish I could go back. To note shadows and bracelets and the alley cat. To have that freedom to keep moving, as though this is where I belong, as though I know these passing faces, as though this fabric is embedded in me, underneath me, through me.

I am scared of strangers. Of the monster in the box. And more than that, I’m scared of becoming a stranger.

That era of “finding myself” is probably over, though I officially have 11+16 more days as a teenager. The excuses have worn out, the philosophies completely dissipated, the photos even have faded. This is it.
Electroconvulsive therapy- hell, I thought they outlawed that shit. What better way to treat Childhood, right? No, I’m cured or at least, I will be.

I’ve written and rewritten these words in my head. I’ve crossed them out in deep black ink, pressed hard enough to make crafts out of lined paper. I’ve threaded it with sentiments and anger and anguish and sadness, and I’ve undone it, unhooked it, untangled every alphabet. And stared. Even then, I don’t think I’ve felt a word stronger than this one before. I’ve never before been this appalled at a single word’s passive curves- apathy.

While I understand that its antonym- empathy- is by no means easy to come by and can hardly be said to be handed out at street corners, I believe in a middle ground. In between the Pope during the Holocaust and Mother Teresa. And hey, my dear university, you bear a strange resemblance to that particular papacy.

It’s odd how things turned out.

I saw this girl last a few years ago, at a random family friend’s wedding. I guess we used to be friends but, I don’t remember much other than a fear that my feet would make a mess on the white carpet that lay over her childhood home’s stairs. I was surprised to see her message, just the day after. Of course, I knew she’d know– mallu mallu connexion, you know? But, I was surprised she cared. It was just nice knowing that.

And if you need anything, do call.
As if! My first reaction was surely of a cynic. You probably wouldn’t be able to give me what I need but, it’s nice to have an option, no?

Then those kids in high school. When did I last talk to them? Senior picnic maybe. Graduation maybe. Summer, simply to discuss college plans, maybe. I was in such a hurry to leave that I scarce tried to hold on. I made the effort at times. And I guess, now, I’m glad I did. Because they were there. And they responded without me asking them to. I’m not even talking about my friends but my classmates. They sent out awkwardly-worded short messages full of doubt and fear and spelling mistakes. And for some reason, they helped.

And this gorgeous campus of mine. hah.

Oh, the irony. I have sat at awe at the brilliance of my some of my newer classmates but the respect I once had has melted down to a kind of disgust. I should have known.

I should have known, dear university, of that puff with which your inhabitants would complain to me about their schedules and workloads and annoying phone calls from parents and bank statements and dinner plans and weather problems and exams and deadlines and things that have no relevance on a reality scale.
I should have known that because they did not know what to say, they’d say nothing instead. Because they didn’t know how to make it better, they’d exclude and thereby, make it worse. Because they were too uncomfortable, they wouldn’t share the news. Because they didn’t know how to deal, they’d ignore the need for dealing.
I should have known that I’d come back to a world where not a single person would say a single word. Be it a word of comfort, of understanding or even a ‘hey, how are you doing?’
I should have known that I’d feel like I had to force even the closest of friends to talk to me. I had to beg for their empathy when I simply wanted understanding, or at least, common sense.

Yes, I think I’d be comfortable with common sense. Hell, I don’t even ask for friendship- just basic human decency.

And don’t you dare tell me that you didn’t speak to me when you should have because you didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t told what to say, what to do, how to do what or what to do when. And you’re not going to be told either. You either do something because you care or don’t because you don’t. There isn’t a difference in desire if that desire is not transformed into action.

And yes, it’s too late now. It’s too late to leave flowers on my desk and impersonal cards offering to be there. No, it’s too late to be there. It’s too late to ask, to inquire, to comfort, to care. So don’t you dare tell me you made an effort.

Dear university, I’d do anything to leave. Because I’d prefer hatred over nothing. Anything but this apathy I see in these sparkling eyes reaching out of my camera’s hands.

This city that used to be my mistress, who made me love the cold air that embraced me on autumn nights and glistening rivers that kept me company on sunny days, feels sickeningly dead. I no longer long for its cries or look forward to the bends at its corners. I neither hear it nor want to. I haven’t taken a single portrait, admiring the depth of its porous skin, in what feels like ages.

This city of my childhood, of a long long series of firsts, is witness to yet another first. And this time, I never want to return.

Too bad it’s too late to consider a transfer.
Even if it wasn’t, where to? I have a feeling it would have been the same anywhere. But for now, it’s nice to point fingers. Not you, my friend; it’s only this place that corrupted you. Has a good ring! And makes smiling and being pretend-friends somehow more bearable.

B.

I never ever thought I’d have to be up here, in just my final rung as a teenager- having to be grown up, speaking adult thoughts from an adult head with a child’s heart in tow. But then again, this isn’t something that can be thought about or be prepared for. The sun still rises and sets, leaves continue to fall, the winds get stronger, daylight is saved tonight and the traffic on I-95 is probably just the same, and things.. keep going- in this circle. Nothing stops to let us catch our breath and decide who is what and when is meant to be right and when is meant to be wrong or how things would have been.

But this simply isn’t the time for regret or blank wishes, it’s the time for a celebration of a life. This reminds me of how just a few months ago, my mom asked me to get a book for her, called the Joy of Cancer by Anup Kumar. At first, I was like ‘really? why would there be any joy in cancer? That’s like the definition of an oxymoron within itself.’ But soon, she began to share stories from the book with me and I began to see reason. Because if you actually look, there is always joy and there is always light. So I decided to make my own list of joys-

1. Community. I grew up valuing solely freedom, and of course, like every other crazy preteen, was ready to take down the world alone, independently. And every Saturday morning, in my house, the phone will be off the hook from around 6 or 7 Saturday morning and won’t be back until late Sunday evening. Mummy was BIG on relationships, on keeping in touch with everyone and making sure she was updated with everyone. She was constantly talking to people; aunties that she went to primary school with would know my latest hobby or Chechi’s latest performance. And she was always entertaining! If there was a new family here, a random student chilling by him/herself in AMC’s darkest corners- then, lo and behold, they’ll be in our dining room sitting in front of her world-famous biriyani or bhatura. She loved to cook but more than that, she loved to feed. She loved to talk but more than that, she loved to connect. With one trip on a 6 hour flight, she’d become best friends with the person next to her- exchange numbers and from then on, become really good friends. When I visited her in Taiwan, I remember being so shocked when I’d go around shadowing doctors without her and everyone, from doctors in random departments to security guards, would know me as her daughter- even the ones who didn’t know English at all!

And in these past few months, I truly saw the fruits of what she cultivated- beautiful relationships, bonds with so many people, whom she had touched enough that they sacrificed so much for her well-being, as my sister will speak about later. And I know- she couldn’t have been happier.

2. Empathy. Mummy was always known for speaking her mind. She has this friend who’s really pretty and one day, this friend’s sister came to our home and she said, straight up,” you didn’t get any of your sister’s beauty!”

On another note, she was honest, to the point and always ready to help anyone. One of my neighbors came by yesterday to tell us how much my mom’s advice had affected her life, and I realized how she always managed to do that. She’ll know everyone’s stories, be truly honestly empathetic, and share her views about the situation. She’d often tell us stories about her students in such detail. When last year, I was taking my first college Bio classes, with my own equally- accomplished- perhaps but stylistically very different professors who knew so little about me, I realized exactly how much extra time she put into each and every student. In a world where sympathy is often confused with empathy, I was so blessed to learn to define empathy from Mummy, to whom it was simply second nature.

3. Faith. It’s kind of interesting that over the past few days, so many of her own words had come true. She has always been a very pragmatic person but more than just that, she made sure everything was the easiest it could be for us. She gave us specific instructions on what to do, whom to speak to, what the flyers should look like. She wanted to have just one wake time with the funeral right after- and conveniently, that was the only option that worked today. She knew, and made sure we were prepared.

Moreover, she always prayed to Parumala Thirumeni. Just the other day, she was telling my sister the story of how she visited Parumala Palli first when she was just four years old. Even during my childhood, Parumala Thirumeni’s intercessions were a great part of our faith. It is strangely fitting then to see so many parallels between their last days- Parumala Thirumeni was also said to make similar comments in his last days on faith and his bodily death; while he passed away in his early 50’s on a particular November 2nd, Mummy went to heaven on November 3rd. And now, we’re absolutely certain that along with our prayers to Parumala Thirumeni, we can ask for her intercession.

4.  Strength. My mother is undoubtedly the strongest person I have met. I’ve always believed that there is a limit to how much a person can bear- but my mom went over any such lines I had. She went through so much silently. Even in those few moments when she was actually frustrated with how little we could understand her feelings, she acted with patience. She didn’t complain of her pain or even her fears. To be that strong, you either have to made of steel or just be her.

As a mother and wife, she showed us how much sacrifice it takes and what being a family actually means. As a scientist and professor, she was fully committed to her job. She’d go to her labs on the weekends, at 6 am on Sunday morning, where her car would be the only one in the parking lot.. sometimes, for the entire day! And simply as a woman, she always put every bit of herself into everything she has ever done. I mean, just imagine what it’s like to be doing her Ph.D while being pregnant with me, completing her thesis, dealing with a sick baby and doing her post-doc 6000 milesaway from us, in a new country where she didn’t know the language or a single person- young, naive and alone. Is there anything more I have to say to demonstrate her willpower?

I’d like to leave you all with a few thoughts that I’m sure my mom would have wanted you to know. Of course, we’ll miss her and especially as my family continues on, there’ll be giant hole in everything that we do. But please don’t be sorry for my loss – I haven’t lost a book or misplaced a pen. I haven’t lost a thing, because she’s right here. We won’t simply mourn her death because we’re absolutely certain that she has lived a life worth celebrating. To paraphrase one of my favorite authors, Saint-Exupery ‘she who has gone- we cherish her memory but she abides with us- more potent, nay, more present than any living person.’ And what we once loved so much is a part of us and no matter what, cannot be taken away.

To my mother, there are 7 billion people in this world and today, it is completely empty. This world is silent, waiting for you to speak, to lead me on. But, I know you are here, in this room, looking to see whether I am wearing a necklace today, asking us whether we ate, slept, showered. You are here, looking out and looking in at once. You were constantly working for others, your entire life. And now, I’m about to give you more work in the form of prayers. And, you better be ready for that!

Look at all these people hovering above you. The pointed shape of their crimson lips, their exclamations, the white of their teeth, their coarse fingers eager to touch you, to lift you up to the sky- watch it all and try to remember it. Revel in it but don’t believe it. These same lips will bent down in just a few months. These same hands will retreat away from you, in fear, in disgust, in pity, in sorrow, in disbelief, in sympathy. These same faces will change in disposition in response to your change in appearance. “What a beautiful girl,” they might claim but don’t forget, this too will change.

To the five-year old me:

Things will change; don’t worry. You skin might never be absolutely perfect but one day, people will comment on how smooth it is or how clear it is (score to not having acne throughout high school). They’ll never guess that it used to be the way it is now. One day, you’ll be able to walk in the sun, play in the dirt and let salt water touch your feet without having to wince. They call it childhood eczema for a reason (oh, by the way, that’s all it is. You’re not cursed.) and it affects 10-20% of children in developed nations. Growing up, you’ll meet tons and tons of people who too had this and as sad as it sounds, your experience will mean very very very little. So take it easy. Count some more, slap it some more, sit on your Appachen’s lap and name every person who walks by your gate, draw pictures on the chalkboard, make up stories with your dolls and create sculptures in the mud. Oh, and dance more in the rain in your petticoat- colds the next day won’t be that bad.

To the ten-year old me:

These strange habits of people around you will one day become your own (including, believe it or not, drinking cold milk). One day, you’ll become one of them too so don’t struggle against it this hard. Open your mind. It’s really not that different- the new country you’re in. Your house may not be your school but it is your home. Get used to it as quickly as you can. Ask for family trips and family meals and family talks and family pictures. Take the long way home from school, practice your flute, advocate dance practice in the hallways, learn a new style of dance. Keep all these new people somewhere in the corner of your mind. Don’t back up from anything because you think it is against your background. That’s just silly (and so is that striped shirt you have).

To the fifteen-year old me:

You might hate the place you’re in now but so do most people your age. Everyone wants to leave and you’re no exception- get over it. When it’s time for you to finally leave, you’ll regret this time you wasted by not “wanting” to be here. So learn these new people’s names, explore your (seemingly non-existent but still, existing) city, join a variety of groups and be a part of that community even if you don’t think it’s yours. Don’t quit dance. You might hate it now but don’t forget the reason you started, a passion you followed and yes, you will wish you had kept with it one day. Stop wearing eyeliner and stop drinking coffee- you don’t need either. Join the theater group, stay late in high school, let your guard down, let your guard down, let your guard down, let your guard down and say “yes, I’d love to” more often. You don’t need to be perfect (your “idols” aren’t perfect either). And don’t worry- you have a lifetime to change the world but, you might want to know yourself first.

To the twenty-year old me:

I don’t know you yet and I have learned by now that I can definitely drastically change in six months so I’m not sure I know what to tell you. Don’t dwell on things. Let go. Of the past, of the people, of the memories that make you cringe. There’s today and there might be a tomorrow but yesterday has fully disappeared. So breathe. No, the world (sadly) is not on your frail shoulders. You’re obligated to yourself first so, be selfish. Expect the worst of others and be pleasantly surprised at their best (no matter how well you think you know them). Know that things can always get worse; there is no bottom to this pit so stop imagining that bottom. And though, at your absolute worst, no one will be with you, it’s okay. Don’t forget that you always have yourself. The rope you had been hanging on to might have been cut and you might think you’re falling into that precipice. But that’s okay too. You didn’t need that rope. This will let you sprout wings and teach you how to fly. To the twenty-year old me: one day, either everything will fall into place or you’ll learn to love chaos.. and yes, you will survive. After all, there are more than 6.9 billion of you in the world.

Click for Flickr by jeffjose

“നീ വല്ലതും കഴിച്ചോ?” എന്നത്തേയും പോലെ വേനല്‍ അവധിക്കു വീട്ടില്‍ വരുമ്പോഴുള്ള  അമ്മച്ചിയുടെ ഈ ചോദ്യത്തിനു തലയാട്ടികൊണ്ട് ലിവിംഗ് റൂമിലെ വെല്‍വെറ്റ് ദിവാനിലേക്ക് ഞാന്‍ ചാടികേറി. കുറച്ചു കാര്‍ട്ടൂണ്‍, പിന്നെ ഒരുറക്കം, പിന്നെ അമ്മച്ചിയുടെ വക വഴക്കും ഡിന്നറും- പതിവൊന്നും തെറ്റിക്കാന്‍ പാടില്ലല്ലോ.

“കാത്തു!!”

അന്ന് പക്ഷേ അമ്മച്ചിയുടെ വിളി ഒരല്പം നേരത്തെ ആയിരുന്നു, ടെക്ക്സ്റ്റര്‍  തുടങ്ങിയിട്ട് അധികം ആയിട്ട് പോലും ഇല്ല.. ശോ! ഈ അമ്മച്ചി.

“എന്തോ?” ഞാന്‍ ഉറക്കെ അലറി. “ആ” എന്ന് അലറിയാല്‍ അപ്പച്ചന്‍ വഴക്ക് പറയും. നല്ല കുട്ട്യോള്‍ “എന്തോ” എന്നാ വിളി കേള്‍ക്കുന്നേ എന്നാ അപ്പച്ചന്‍ പറയുന്നേ.. ആ, ഇനി ആദ്യത്തെ ദിവസം തന്നെ വഴക്ക് വേണ്ട – എന്തോ എങ്കില്‍ എന്തോ.

മനസ്സില്ലാ മനസ്സോടെ ഞാന്‍ ടീവീ കെടുത്തി അടുക്കളയിലോട്ടു ചെന്നു. പുറത്തേക്കുള്ള കതകു തുറന്നു  കിടക്കുകയായിരുന്നു.  ഒരു നെടുവീര്‍പോടെ ഞാന്‍ പുറത്തേക്കു നടന്നു. ഇപ്പൊ തുടങ്ങും “ഊട്ടിയിലുള്ള പേരക്കുട്ടിയല്ലേ! ശോ, അങ്ങ് നീളം വച്ചല്ലോ! എന്താ ഇത്? ഒന്നും കഴിക്കാറില്ലേ? കുട്ടികള്‍ക്കിതോന്നും  പോരാട്ടോ!” എന്നും പറഞ്ഞു ഓരോരുത്തരെന്റെ ചെകിടതും നുള്ളി, കുറെ നേരം വെറുതെ ബോറടിപ്പിക്കും! പിന്നെ ഒരു എസ്കേപ്പ് റൂട്ട് കിട്ടുന്നത് വരെ അങ്ങനെ ചിരിചോണ്ട് കയ്യും കെട്ടിയിരിക്കും. ശോ, ഓരോരോ അവസ്ഥ.

പക്ഷേ ഇന്ന് ഈ പേരക്കുട്ടിയെ കാണാന്‍ വന്നത് അവരൊന്നും അല്ലായിരുന്നു.

“കാത്തുമ്മേ, നോക്കിയേ, നിന്റെ കൂടെ കളിക്കാന്‍ വന്നതരാണെന്ന്!” അമ്മച്ചി എന്നെ അടുതോട്ടു പിടിച്ചു, “തൊട്ടോ!”

ഞാന്‍ പതിയെ അതിന്റെ തലയില്‍ തൊട്ടു. പെട്ടന്നത് തലയാട്ടി. ഒരു ആട്ടിന്‍കുട്ടി! “ഇതിന്റെ പേരെന്താ, അമ്മച്ചി?” ഞാന്‍  അതിന്റെ കഴുത്തില്‍ തലോടിക്കൊണ്ട് ച്യോദിച്ചു.

“മോള് പെരിട്ടോ! പിന്നെ അതിനു കഴിക്കാന്‍  അപ്പുറത്തെ വീട്ടിലെ ഓമയില്‍നിന്നു കുറച്ചു ഇല പറിച്ചോണ്ട് വാ.”

ഞാന്‍ തലയാട്ടികൊണ്ട് ചെരുപ്പ് പോലും ഇടാതെ “അപ്പുറത്തെ വീട്”  എന്ന് എല്ലാവരും വിളിക്കുന്ന അപ്പചെന്റെയും അമ്മച്ചിയുടെയും പഴയ വീട്ടിലോട്ടു ഓടി. അന്ന് മുഴുവന്‍ എന്റെ ആട്ടിന്‍കുട്ടിയെ നോക്കുകയായിരുന്നു പ്രധാന പരുപാടി.

പിറ്റേ ദിവസവും.

അതിന്റെ പിറ്റേ ദിവസവും.

ഓമയുടെ ഇല, പ്ലാവില, അങ്ങനെ അങ്ങനെ.. രണ്ടു വീടിന്റെയും കാടും മേടും ഒക്കെ നടന്നു, ആടിനു ഭക്ഷണവും ശേകരിച്ച്, ജീയോഗ്രാഫി ക്ലാസ്സില്‍ പഠിച്ച ആദിമകാലത്തെ കാട്ടാളത്തി  ആയി എന്ന പോസ്സില്‍ ഇങ്ങനെ പോയി പോയി, എന്റെ പരോള്‍ കാലാവധി കഴിഞ്ഞു.

“ഞാന്‍ ഇവളെയും കൂടെ കൊണ്ടുപോയിക്കോട്ടേ, അമ്മച്ചി?” തിരിച്ചു പോകുന്നതിന്റെ തലേ ദിവസം ഞാന്‍ കരഞ്ഞു. വരും വര്‍ഷങ്ങളില്‍ എന്നെ പറഞ്ഞു കളിയാക്കാന്‍ എല്ലാവര്‍ക്കും ഒരു പുതിയ ടയിലോഗ് സമ്മാനിച്ചു എന്നല്ലാതെ എന്റെ ഈ ചെറിയ ചോദ്യത്തിന് പ്രത്യേകിച്ച് പ്രസക്തി ഒന്നും ഉണ്ടായില്ല. (അല്ലെങ്കില്ലും, ഒരു ജീനിയസ്സിനും വേണ്ടത്ര ആദരവ് സ്വന്തം വീട്ടില്‍ നിന്ന് കിട്ടാറില്ല – കേട്ടിട്ടില്ല്യെ? “മുറ്റത്തെ ജാസ്മിന്..”)

“അടുത്ത പ്രാവശ്യം വരുമ്പോള്‍ കാണാട്ടോ. നല്ല കുട്ടിയായിട്ടിരിക്കണം,” എന്ന് എന്റെ പാവം ആട്ടിന്‍കുട്ടിയുടെ ചെവിയില്‍ പതിയെ പറഞ്ഞു നയനാംബുലയായി  കാറില്‍ കയറി, വാതില്‍ അടച്ച്, അവള്‍ ചെറുതായി ചെറുതായി പോകുന്നത് ഇങ്ങനെ കണ്ടു കൊണ്ടിരുന്നു.

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“നീ വലതും കഴിച്ചോ?” അമ്മച്ചിയുടെ അതെ ചോദ്യം കേട്ടുകൊണ്ടാ പിറ്റേ വര്‍ഷവും വീട്ടില്‍ കയറിയത്.  പക്ഷെ ഈ തവണ, ബാഗ് ദിവാനിലേക്ക് വലിച്ചെറിഞ്ഞു ഞാന്‍ അടുക്കളയിലോട്ടോടി, പിന്നെ പുറത്തു നോക്കി, അപ്പുറത്തെ വീടിന്റെ ഷെഡില്‍, അപ്പുറത്തെ അടുക്കള വാതില്‍ക്കല്‍…
എവിടെയും  എന്റെ ആട്ടിന്‍കുട്ടിയെ മാത്രം കണ്ടില്ല! അമ്മച്ചിക്കോ? ഞാന്‍ എന്താ നോക്കുന്നതെന്ന് പോലും മനസ്സില്ലായില്ല!

“അത് പിന്നെ…” ഞാന്‍ ചോദിച്ചു ചോദിച്ചു ഒടുവില്‍ അമ്മച്ചി പറയാന്‍ തുടങ്ങി, “അത് പിന്നെ ഒരു ദിവസം അങ്ങ് ഓടിപോയി! അതിനും കാണില്ലേ വീട്?”
സങ്കടം വന്നെങ്കില്ലും ഞാന്‍ തലയാട്ടി.

അന്ന് ഞാന്‍ കാര്‍ട്ടൂണ്‍ ഒന്നും കണ്ടില്ല.

പിറ്റേ ആഴ്ച, എന്റെ അമ്മയുടെ അനിയന്‍ വീട്ടില്‍ വന്നു. കുഞ്ഞങ്കിള്‍ ഈ പ്രാവശ്യം വരുമ്പോള്‍ കല്യാണം കഴിക്കും എന്നായിരുന്നു വീട്ടിലെ മെയിന്‍  സംസാരം. എന്റെ അങ്കിള്‍ ഭയങ്ങരമായിട്ടു മെലിഞ്ഞിട്ടായിരുന്നു. അതിനു പ്രതിവിധിയായി എല്ലാ ദിവസവും ആട്ടിന്‍ സൂപ്പ് കുടിക്കണം എന്നായിരുന്നു അമ്മച്ചിയുടെ കല്പന (അല്ലെങ്കില്‍ പിന്നെ അങ്കിളിനെക്കാലും മെലിഞ്ഞ ഒരു ആന്റിയെ കിട്ടാന്‍ വല്ല സൊമാല്യയിലോ മറ്റോ പോവണം എന്നും കുറുപ്പടിയുടെ കൂടെ ചേര്‍ത്തിരുന്നു).

ദിവസവും  അത്  കുഞ്ഞങ്കളിന്റെ കയ്യില്‍ ഏല്‍പ്പിക്കുന്നതോ, എന്റെ ജോലിയായിരുന്നു. അങ്ങനെ ഒരു ദിവസം, സൂപ്പ് കൊടുക്കുമ്പോഴാ എനിക്കൊരു ഐഡിയ തോന്നിയത്…

“ഇതു കുടിക്കാന്‍ തുടങ്ങിയിട്ട് എത്ര നാളായി?” ഞാന്‍ പിടിച്ച വെള്ള കപ്പില്ലുള്ള ചുവന്ന ഗ്രേവിയില്‍ എന്റെ ആട്ടിന്‍കുട്ടിയുടെ മുഖം കണ്ടുകൊണ്ടു  ഞാന്‍ ചോദിച്ചു.

പിന്നെ അമ്മച്ചി കള്ളം പറഞ്ഞു എന്ന് ഉറക്കെ നിലവിളിച്ച്‌ ഒറ്റ ഓട്ടമായിരുന്നു അടുക്കളയിലോട്ടു. അവിടെത്തിയപോഴേക്കും, നയാഗ്രയെ വെല്ലുന്ന വെള്ളചാട്ടവും കരച്ചില്ലും തുടങ്ങിയിരുന്നു. അതൊക്കെ നിര്‍ത്താന്‍ അവരെല്ലാം കൂടി പെട്ട പാട്.. ശോ! വല്ല ആവശ്യവും ഉണ്ടായിരുന്നോ?

കരച്ചില്‍ നിര്‍ത്തി, എല്ലാവര്ക്കും സമാധാനവും കൊടുത്തു പ്രാര്‍ത്ഥനയ്ക്ക് ഇരിക്കുമ്പോഴാ എന്റെ അടുത്ത പ്രസ്താവന -

“ഞാന്‍ ഇന്ന് മുതല്‍ വെജിറ്റെറിയനാ..” അല്ലപിന്നെ, എന്നോടാ കളി!

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P.S: തെറ്റുകള്‍ പൊറുക്കുകയും തിരുത്തുകയും ചെയ്യണം പ്ലീസ്! നാലാം ക്ലാസ്സില്‍ പോലും മലയാളത്തിനായിരുന്നു ഏറ്റവും കുറവ് മാര്‍ക്സ് =(, പിന്നെ പഠിച്ചതും ഇല്ല്യ. ബെസ്റ്റ്. =/

flickr by jitenshaman

If I were a boy, I wonder whether my dad would drink with me. I wonder whether he’d sit me down, and offer me a crystal glass with a bit of golden whiskey and jumping soda. When I grimace at its bitter taste, he’d tell me, “son, this is good for the heart. It’ll make you a stronger man.” And I’d stay with him on weekend summer nights with my feet on the kitchen counter, watching the blurry pirated Malayalam movie playing on a flat-screened TV, sipping and savoring the spicy chasers with circular onions on the side. When I drive with him sitting next to me, the smiling photo on my permit would wink. His heart beats would be a little slower and his fist, a bit looser. “Turn left here,” he’d sometimes say but that would be all. And on those days that I feel that teenage suffocation, I’d climb out my window, like in those suburban movies with shitty dialogues, and jump onto my suburban lawn and meet up with my friends who waited with a car at my mailbox. We’d drive around our suburban neighborhood, emptying green-glass bottles into our throats and making red stop signs kiss the floor. On Halloween night, we’d bring rolls and rolls of toilet paper, and wrap up those weird houses with weird people, and leave gross messes on their weird lawns. On summer nights like today, I’d climb out my window and lie on the slanted roof with the raised shingles making their mark on my shirtless body, thinking about those high school nights of teenage rebellion with high school friends who once idolized the college boys. I’d think about that high school girl, whom I’d almost forgotten in my first year of “true love”, and somewhere inside my manly heart, a spirit would turn in its sleep and pry out a single tear from an unsuspecting gland. What would have been.

If I were a boy, I wonder whether my mom would think I look good with short hair. I wouldn’t be yelled at when I don’t wear shiny gold necklaces, so that the other Indian aunty doesn’t confuse me for a Pentecostal kid. On hot days, I can walk around the house in basketball shorts and go biking with the boys next door. When I spend a few weeks in India by myself, my grandparents wouldn’t think twice about letting me go for walks alone. I’d take auto-rickshaws by myself and start conversations with the friendly drivers whose eyes in the mirror almost always hold smiles for me. I’d take public transportation to travel to those far places listed in tourism brochures. When my grandmother needs something and the driver is ill, I’d go by myself to the nearby town and thereby save the day. When uncles and aunties come to visit after my sibling’s wedding, they wouldn’t hold my hand and ask me when my turn is but rather, they’d ask me when I am getting my job. And hours after they leave, I’d lay on the terrace with my hand under my head thinking of an apt reply to a question asked much much earlier. What will be.

If I were a boy, I wonder whether my brother would take me along with him on his own deviant adventures. On weekends, he’d pick me up from campus and take me on rides through the city. At night, I’d join an array of his friends with my own and join in drunken laughter. Each Thursday, my phone would overflow with friends asking me about the night’s plans and each Thursday, something always happened. And sitting there on my brother’s carpeted floor, with a drink in my hand, belligerent friends with their silliness to show and music to wake up the devil, I would quietly turn off my deceitful phone at the sound of my girlfriend’s call. On long breaks, I’d take her home and introduce her to my family. My dad’s face would turn in anger and my mom would have tears in her eyes. For a week, they wouldn’t speak to me. But then, for some reason, they’d understand. At my graduation party, she’d sit at my side and I’d introduce her to every uncle and aunty who come by my table to congratulate me. Later, as the hall is cleaned up, the tables cleared and the decorations thrown out, I’d quietly press my hand into hers and whisper, “We should move on with our lives.” And as she storms out, appalled at an ending everyone foresaw, the monster in my heart would scream. Late at night that day, with a pillow that feels like an old brick wall, it would lash out the tears that never were as I think about her and the rest of my life. What is.

If I were a boy, I wonder whether my parents would let me take a year off since my age wouldn’t matter too much for those marriage proposals that would pile on after medical school. I’d live in New York City in a shady apartment in a shady neighborhood with a shady lock that barely matched my key. I’d take walks around Manhattan and laugh at middle-aged tourists with no sense of direction and little boys who confused them on purpose. I’d walk into random coffee shops and live on Chinese take-out and cheap Afghan food carts. At nights, I’d patrol the subway stations and observe those worn-out faces with tired eyes and feet that barely stopped. I’d sit next to a homeless man and hear the stories that made him smile with three missing teeth. On weekends, I’d join my newly-employed college friends who were smart enough to study something that employed them decently after one degree. We’d visit bars and clubs, and become friends with bartenders who’d save us free drinks. When the taste of alcohol starts to be repulsive, I’d concentrate on observing my friends and how much they’ve changed or sometimes, how little they had. We’d rate the girls who walked in the doors to a world of dimmed lights with sparkling shoes that made them tall and bright lipstick that swelled their lips. We’d buy them drinks and compliment their greasy hair or dresses with purposeful holes. I’d take each of my friends home, tolerating their kicks and screams, yelling that they’re just fine and don’t need help. And after each one stumbles into their respective beds, I’d return to my empty room and remind myself for the thousandth time to buy some real furniture. I’d fall asleep on my dirty laundry and wake up to the smell of urine and remind myself again that my year is almost over. What has been.

If I were a boy, I wonder whether I’d be able to play the hand I was dealt. What would be.