How many love letters are so many love letters? When I started to teach my kids, I was full of self-doubts. But in a few months, my kids taught me the opposite of self-doubts. They taught me to love with their naive passion for learning. They showed me the essence of gratitude with their purple love letters or with their examples for adjectives, or early morning hugs, or late afternoon high fives. One example of an adjective was, “teacher is a beautiful rani.” I was shamelessly delighted at this. As my dear students say, they give me goose pimples often. It happened today also with the amount of reassurance, validation, and joy I had listening to two heroines here. The entire session is a love song one should hear every day.
Heart jumped and wrote letters to itself that often need to be opened and closed. The gut was utterly, emotionally naked, for we weren’t interested in addressing pain at all today. If I want to melt the unnecessary outer frost, all I have to be is warm. There isn’t any necessity for match sticks. Like Paro rani says, all you have to do is make yourself the protagonist of your story because you are the story of your life. I should stop running on abandoned time. There will forever be goodbyes and giggles fleeing my lips but laughing at heartbreaks is what I unlearned today. Heartbreaks will go away because they will, in surprises of privacy from inch by inch. And little by little in the comfort of discovering self in loneliness. And by degrees, being able to enjoy self while the other person is likewise enjoying. Not to bypass, “one heartbreak slightly replaces the other,” as Paro rani says. Perhaps this is why we run to people, the most intimate hoop, because for how long can I be my own sunshine? Perhaps this is why I send messages like this.
After moving to a different city, I started becoming more comfortable with loneliness. Paro rani says when you don’t fit in anywhere, you will have a lot of time to think of yourself, so you ask questions. I feel this is how self-discovery happens, and the struggle becomes less cruel. I don’t want to think of situations where I struggled to fit in, spaces where I forgot what my strength was because it doesn’t make vulnerability strong. It doesn’t make me write love letters. It doesn’t allow me to take love seriously. It is bad romance. Rajesh Khanna said, Pushpa, I hate tears, and today Paro rani said Pushpa, I hate nostalgia. Forgetting is a part of growth; my eyes drowsy. I smiled.
Sometimes the thought of survival seems no romance to me. It feels like it began with a full stop. The letters become words only come when we run into each other, as Paro rani puts it. We run into each other, following desire, sharing grief, or solely bearing those mischievous ridiculous conversations, discovering more stories of pleasure, laughing at our heartbreaks, dealing with those, and falling in love again.
This screenshot is from the film Yuni where these girls, carrying more than what is a plethora of aches on their senses, still find a path to encounter solace by simply lying almost on each other, on the ground, and talking. Isn’t this intimacy? Yuni is a very ticklish film because, despite all the unsolicited troubles and restrictions a girl faces, it creates ways to balance life with the teeny weeny things in life. To me, it is with the obsession with the color purple and purple everything, for Yuni too. The only difference is that Yuni stole them, and I requested for them. Isn’t this intimacy?
Keeping the lid on self today needs to be cooled and not boiled. It isn’t about unveiling answers by myself; it is to write more love letters. With pens or without pens. Maybe with Kajal. It is to take love seriously. This is when you know you have reached your garden of pleasure, quickening your blood and thus life, as paro rani says. This is when you know you have a map to trust your gut; the map that shows a route to live. Here’s my map.
Yesterday was international chai day it seems, and coincidently we also did one informal chai session with the dept. Something strange, ambivalent, or bitter-sweet moment is that the college is ending online. A couple of days ago Vj said that if you’re nobody in your life or someone else’s life, how do you prepare for situations that can be escaped only if you have power? My pen still sings while I ponder about it, how the hum of strength is seldom an empty excitement if I connect it to the liabilities that are yielded out of friendships or relationships. Her words perpetually come with great force, and it punches me on the face, be it talking or writing.
On chai conversations, she was glad that the college didn’t come in between the teacher-student bond; that she couldn’t see college at all in online learning. The influence of these bits to me is somewhat a kind of obscure remedy. It will sound like I am smearing butter all over your dosa but I feel like a kutty plant being watered, the flowers are moments with these teachers that can be seized as a memory, but no one dares to pluck it off. Three years of CPE to me, was like voyaging on some undiscovered water, sometimes drowning and other times floating. The department has made someone out of me that feels less stupid, that aches to be a discoverer of many many stories.
here’s one very rare moment where I am not admiring myself and happily staring at someone else
Amalnath spoke, touching on how he carries a little regret about not being participative in the past two years. I hold the very regret, that I could never fit in until a certain tweetathon and buttermilk session befell, with Vj again. I am extremely grateful for her that I am ready to ditch lays and become one ambassador for bingo. She is addictive, just like her plain bingo chips. Very lovely Diya (and others) was the reason behind this wholesome session where I learned CPE was many peoples’ first love.
The authority to assume that elders are equipped in the fundamental ways of softening my messy teenage seems so ridiculous now. There is a fascinating detail around the realness of the learning with the department, that granted me a possibility to think in an outspread sense. Ashta said something very beautiful, “A class that behaved like husband and wife celebrating their 30th anniversary.” Even if there are fewer talks; if there are no complementary conversations, everything is still said and understood.
Amma was pretty thrilled to see AM on the screen again. She has been doing this spy business behind my room’s door since the last lockdown. It is during this time that there breathes no normal acquaintances talks or intermediate resolutions to her. She stands behind the door and peeps into the tiny opening as if she has understood how to be, of no fixed abode, ready to adjust in the rarest of situations – casually. On the flip side, she went on the gram texting P and S that my chai session didn’t let her watch her serials. Ma, who asked you to mute the TV, and be engaged in spying to detect the kind buzz of our talks?
I am still anxious about simply hitting that unmute button on the unadorned screen, but the dept, that’s my home, has provided me with enough guts to talk despite me trembling with a shiver. Hands keep shaking and so do my mouth. Of course, all our heartfelt speeches were not loaded amidst admiration and passion. We were utterly honest and talked in between witty memories and gratitude. Full of awe, more than mere words. I enjoyed multiple grins on and off the screen, the kind shrugs, and some delicate shine beyond my glasses. The cringe behind cuteness, the pleasure of being called cows, dabbas, and kakkas that I am pleased of, I think we are all honored by each other’s existence. It is not naive to appreciate the company, for even the awkward silences became comfortable. Perhaps we will eternally be in touch and the bond endures. Tatas’ and byes’ are a part of growing. (Or do I say aging? :p)
Sometimes even when the relatives do good things and behave orderly, it is clouded by all the annoying mockeries that they never stop delivering. Family gatherings at my place extend a kind of buy one get one free offer. The aunty who claims that she is wearing the 50 thousand rupees chain and jumka set questions me about not wearing a saree to the function, of course, she is being affectionate with her saree while she speaks about it. Another aunty who seems to be a fan of the braggart woman advises me that deep blue doesn’t harmonize with my skin tone. “Swalpa dark complexion alwa; going to college under the scorching sun had turned me a little (more) darker.” And as she recommends, from that day onward I am supposed to wear light-colored clothes that might help in overlooking my skin shade and allowing people to focus on other things. You know what other things the aunts must have been talking about.
I exist in a joint family without any choice. Two male cousins who are at least a decade elder than me live under the same roof. The younger one amongst those cousins is, let me just name him Z. I didn’t perpetually hate him. I still don’t recognize if I hate him but, sometimes imagine that it would be nice if one of his teeth breaks and drops off. Consequently, before uttering trash jokes or anything he will remember about the opening in his mouth that grants him unrestricted air. He would make ff—ff voices only in due course.
He remained generous to me during childhood, whenever Acharappa was exhausted, Z would drop me at school. He additionally made sure that he bought me a chips packet; side snacks for lunch only if he dropped me at school. We always walked, he would ask me about colors, vehicles, or would simply sound out to questions like which was the national animal, or the national bird, and all that. Sometimes he would also give me Kannada words and I had to translate them into English. The translation is a heavy word here, it was merely a language metamorphose. Bendekai? and I would say Ladies finger. A five-finger exercise.
Z is somewhat tall and a shy guy. For the longest time of his life, his cheeks and chin were clean shaved. It was only in his early 20s that tiny inches of hair, which he called mustache clasped to his skin. Z soon recognized that his belly was casting out, but anyways he remained a champion, to me. Once he dressed up as Kanchana, with the passionate red saree and a black blouse, a wig whose hair was dangling loosely; messy, and an expansive bindi on his small forehead. He danced for kodiyavanin kathaya, in the competition and won a certain trophy, carried it home with repletion. I remember that not everyone happened to be celebrating his win, but I sure did. It became another cause for me; another reason for him to be the champion. Z was a brother who knew how to make his little sister smile, who could turn into a giant carrying both my bag and me, who could also win competitions. I was fascinated with him until one summer forenoon arrived.
Amma used to give tuitions earlier, before a septennial. And, more than boys we had girls coming in. One of those thirty students was S. I admired S because whenever she came home, she would carry me as if it was an elation to grip her heart in rhythm. S smoothly held my little body close to her breast and I would welcome all the warmth of that world then; such comfort. S was already in 10th grade while I was only in 3rd grade. It was one Sunday lunchtime while she came home. Amma usually didn’t take tuitions on Sundays, hence Amma, me, and also Z who was with us was surprised to see her. It was her birthday. S had dressed in an adorable floral frock. It fit her well, her breasts looked pretty and her slender limbs enjoyed an ignorable amount of hair; that frock seemed beautiful because she wore it. On top of everything, it carried many many tiny purpled flowers guarded amidst yellow and green in all directions. It was a perfect birthday; she had bought a cake for me and mango bites for everyone else. How do I not love her enough? It happened on her birthday that one of my biggest decisions changed.
I always considered that whenever love happens, the boyfriend – girlfriend love, Z would be the first person to know about that love of my life. But this agreement I tied with myself was withdrawn that very moment when S bid a bye and returned back to her home. “That front part looked ontara, it has come very front,” Z was talking about her breasts as if his eyes couldn’t resist it. Amma laughed at it, and alongside each other, I told her touching the inclination my brain had; desired a frock similar to the one S wore. Z was infuriated, he didn’t beat me, however, that strange sight gave me an unpleasant look for the first time. When he cannot control his heat, if it isn’t armed in the right situation to develop perspectives, a fierce rage could be one result. Amma controlled the scene by simply laughing out loud. A peal of giggling wasn’t required, she could advise him to shut his sights if that bothered him.
Z and I never fought dangerously; always remained trivial. If this moment the action was for a TV remote, that moment it would be for snacks he stole from my plate although his plate bore the pretty same, equal food. Crying after those minor fights were obligatory, I wept and Acharappa would haul over the coals. “Katthe vaisig bandidya, chikkmagu jothe jagla adthya?” That is what I needed; tears would end while the lips stretched. Something that brought us back together was badminton, Z would compensate by the racket and cock if we were unfriendly and hostile.
It wasn’t so long ago that we completely stopped talking to each other. At times, off and on, we sit together and yet don’t see each other’s faces. He likes cooking and he cooks everything in my kitchen alone, I don’t understand what troubles him in his kitchen. Perhaps the cockroaches. Or lizards. During the last vacation, while the sun was boiling bitter, power cut remained a normal thing. It is, as one might say, a temperature that beckons intense soothing, and cool air. Power cuts on such afternoons implied the wicked part of summers. On some days I would just disregard that bras existed, on every night, I would remember to forget them entirely. Poor thing.
On another stuffy midday, I wore a crop top and knee-length pants. These clothing pieces, however, encased my belly and hip inside enough but, the top was sleeveless. Z grew mad and said, “Thoo change that petticoat and 3/4th chaddi. Don’t you have other clothes?” I grew irritated over and reverted. I will wear whatever I want, why for you? He didn’t respond with words after that. Nauseating eye stares were only exchanged. We still haven’t spoken to each other, plainly trade rough looks.
A couple of days ago, unescapable Vj talked about the pink chaddi campaign and recounted how she rebelled with extra two pink chaddis when her father sent off money. Inspiration. I also thought about sending a sleeveless crop top, or rather a bikini to Z as an anonymous spectator. Later I thought about updating the shipping plan. So, I decided to steal one of his shirts and make a crop shirt out of it.
The other day, I went to his room, stole a cute-looking maroon shirt, and took it to my aunt. It felt like putting torch the sun, but I continued anyway. Since tailor aunty stayed with us, I had to design everything carefully. I went to her and told her it’s my friend, N’s shirt, she needs it on a high priority, and that N wanted to turn this into a crop shirt. Tailor aunty agreed as money was paid there and then. She performed the chalk piece marking, cutting, and stitching and it was ready to wear! (That joy is seen in the image, no?)
Just days after, I decided to wear this shirt and roam around the house, extending my respiratory, as if I am for every eye to see. The tailor didn’t ask me doubts but if she had asked, I was prepared to tell her that N didn’t like the outcome; I shall use this as her gift. I expected and waited, like a lonely lover who knows that love will never come. For Z to notice the shirt and ask me whatever he would want to. But it didn’t happen. Perhaps one day he will find out that a shirt is missing from that cramping closet and when he questions me, I will tell him it’s N’s shirt.
He will know the truth and I will undergo a silent pleasure.
It’s 1.18 pm now, my palms are sweating, the sun and wind are sweltering distracted. Today’s summer wind stirred the hot air into my bones. Ruby had been crying since last night as if nothing will heal her away from something that hurts. Ajji tells me that dogs talk to us when someone is dying, they wail at midnight. But she knew this time Ruby will leave us, she leaves and we break off absenting ourselves. She doesn’t like taking medications that the vet gave last week. Aunt would perpetually seize her jaw and try putting the meds inside her oral cavity but this bitch barfed it back on the ground.
It was 2.21 in the afternoon and ruby abruptly ceased to whine. No noise, her tail is straight resting on the ground instead of wagging. Her eyes showed how she has endured agonizing discomfort throughout the dusk. That cry was not enough to soak off distress, fallacies, while your hearts are unoccupied. Aunt seemed distrustful about ruby remaining unruffled. We approached her and she was deliberately squinting her eyes. It tasted like an afternoon of sharpened blades and I thought about how our uptight faces would look through her blurred sights.
“she brings color to everything in the life,”amma, after sending me these glam edits
This made me miserable and I wanted to whine. Whenever I want to cry, loud-mouthed, my breast and gut out, I decide to wash my face. The plinks and ripping of the tap will dominate my hushed shrieks. And the water on this light won’t reveal to anyone, that I am weeping. A towel is shoved onto this face until my sultry eyes start getting bitter, cold. Ruby was still alive. I am somewhat pleased about being present during her last moments, minutes.
I wasn’t there for Acharappa through his last seconds. It is a troublesome and usually severe process. Ajji once told me that when someone is departing, they don’t vanish swiftly. Their eyes are invariably alive and there subsists a little life in the throat that grapples in between life and death. And there was a turn into a different travail of existence in Ruby’s neck. It seemed like many slumbers, my throat parched not merely because of the scorching radiations, also by trying to sense how her throat felt. Ruby left, her glossy eyes obvious and soon Ajji gently closed them.
Ajji was seeing what kaala was it, Raahu kaala? she asked the other aunt and didn’t get an answer or approval. Ajji suddenly wandered to her room and talked to herself about how Ruby relished tomatoes and papayas. Before Ruby, we had Sony with us. Before her we had Bush. Before Bush we had Gunda. Ruby never argued or fought with Chuchu, the cat who embraced napping with Ruby. Perhaps Ruby and Chuchu were best friends, they loved relaxing together. Smoothly chilling. When Chuchu left home, ruby slept like how chuchu did – in the basket. Amma captured a picture once. D says it is a kutty picture that fits too much cuteness at once. Ruby was cutesy. Ruby’s sleeping was cute, like chuchu. Ruby would be 13 this July. She loved capsicum pizzas and ice cakes for birthdays. I decided to write about Ruby and no other pet before because, on her birthday, it’s my birthday.
how ruby slept and how amma captured moments
I don’t understand my relationship with ruby. Was I her mama? Or her sister? When the blood spouts out of my uterus each month, she didn’t doubt walking with me; didn’t present any kind of disgust. But once when she was exhausted and puked blood, I felt nauseated and denied to comfort her. Acharappa screamed at me for behaving like that. I don’t precisely remember what he said, but he made me regret it all my life. Today I regret it a little too much, inordinately, as I didn’t ever apologize to ruby, till date. Sorry.
Death is an extremely intimate affair and it affects each one differently. To me, human death is a little more manageable to carry than a pet’s death. How many days did I mourn over the rabbit in Ganesh’s Mungaru Male? I don’t know, but if I see the scene again today, I will cry. Ruby’s permanent sleep slighted Ajji to linger abandoned and baffled. It made Amma skip her lunch, now dinner too.
I am wondering what it would do to Acharappa. He was fond of ruby, perhaps she was his granddaughter too. Once when a certain stupid auntie was irritated with ruby barking, leaping, and flickering around; ordered her to shut up and remain in her miniature frame-built pup home. Acharappa shifted his emotions from compassion to anger nonchalantly. He asked the auntie to leave home instead of asking ruby to shut up. I was thrilled, I loved how he would never care a bit if the matter was about me, or ruby that day. For such a glare of his augmented sights were a voluntary dismissal of the feeling of protection, a clear sign.
Today I feel like wanting to learn that glare from Acharappa and appreciate my connection with ruby. She wasn’t a mere birthday present. Perhaps she and I are like the soaps Ajji uses; while the old soap is essentially melting, she brings a fresh soap and combines the old one with the new soap. Emotions were not foreign to ruby, she is a colossal giver even today; she is the softened soap linked and blended into my heart now.
I tried writing a love poem once, felt nice might delete later :3
From all sights Of multiple souls, sanities, minds, and hearts I say I love you While rare quasars reveal us to our love and the passion undeniable While I hide my grimace you sip coffee and get me to sign the Eskimo kisses While soapy bubbles dropdown connecting my moist hair and in this damp tune you hold, endure and embrace While the cerulean screens crimson over this home with the resinous story where wafers are baked in an oven And soon you like showing lights through a space caught your arms while the tender tissues rubs mine beneath the shimmering skies Of clear climes coloring you can never imply an oil art perhaps you excite me like warm spring, the ocean’s calm and crystal you mean a flower and all rights well this treasure of being in love that leads through the sunshine that leads through the rainbow
A few days back, I read a story titled Shit. (The Goat Thief by Perumal Murugan) I read the story twice. Amma was angry with me since I devoured her red lays too. Green lays stock is again over. Perhaps it feels nice to know that the provision store aunty now trusts me. “Neen regular customer ma, amele duddu kodu. Parvagilla” To console Amma, I decided to narrate her the shit story. She didn’t know what Shit meant. I told her it is a translation of “Pee.” She made a wild guess and asked me, Malabadrathe bagge na? (Is it about constipation?) I gave a half-suppressed laugh and said no. It is about a plastic tumbler that looked pregnant when filled with beer. I made sure I pictured her the humor that the author has penned. I wanted her to laugh and laugh. We got lost giggling at many things.
Dead frogs, rats, lizards, and cockroaches reminded her something. It was an ancient LG Television at home. This TV then made a nest in Ammamma’s home. One day when Acharappa was watching the boogeyman who would pulverize a clock on his head or eat worms while entering, it suddenly stopped working. He enhanced his waspish action and started hitting the TV’s head. Amma switched it off, then switched it on and then a little dusting too. Nothing worked. LG’s life was nevermore good here. Amma then called the technician and he found out a kutty grave inside. He smirked and asserted “Yappa, balligal smashanane idhe illi.” (there is a graveyard for lizards) A small lizard family (maybe the mother, father, and the baby) had eternally rested on the control board inside the TV. It worked after sending him out.
The author talks about his home which is messed up and looks lively only when some kind lady sweeps it. I knew Amma wouldn’t resist, she advertised that my place looks happy only because of her. Yes! ma I am blessed to have you – she wouldn’t finish attacking otherwise. Her tongue is sharp and she is a roast master. I get shaped out at least twice a day. The howls of wild animals reminded her of my father snorting. I was glad that she began telling a few things about him. The stucco floor reminded her of the old home. The comrades in the story philosophize the stinky home to that of a stinky society. I spoke immediately. This is exactly how aunty ponders about her son’s grades. Shut up, Amma said. No other choice. Phenyl is everywhere an answer for fetid. Ajji never forgets to write lemon-flavored phenyl in the monthly grocery list. The shit smell had become a rascal for a long time that Murugan sir says it moved freely in his house. Amma, out of nowhere, randomly recaptured the famous Mohini devva in Kannada. I recently discovered that it’s not Mohiniya but Oh iniya. Shambala unearths such things when she is bored.
The story is a blend of humanistic affected superiority, class privilege, and gaiety. I was mocked by my thoughts towards the end. Intentionally or accidentally I have had empty talks. The story is stimulating. Dear fellows discuss social evils and frame solutions. Dear fellows only denied giving the bicycle. The tumbler that was adorned once was left alone on the floor in the end – the man who cleaned shit drank water in the tumbler. The story explores a normal rural life on one side and the condition of a manual scavenger on the other side. It is like how aunty says periods are natural; how a woman tolerates the intense pain; how everyone should normalize it. But at the end of the day, the same aunty doesn’t let me inside her home for five days each month. When will her stinky fables shut up?
I would love to cook (not Maggie) if one day Amma permits me. Of many distinct grievances she laments about, one complaint she doesn’t forget (at least once in a day) is about me not helping her with cooking. Perhaps whenever I intend to help her; either to cut vegetables or anything she needs; she rebuffs immediately with her eyes extensively open and a ringing voice declaring “double-double kelsa beda nange.” Is it weird? Yes. Is it unfamiliar? No.
The kitchen is the only place simply operative now and then. It is also the most abandoned place in my home. Because I usually just go there to get water, lays are safe in my cupboard. Amma serves food all the time, all I have to do is sit and eat peacefully. I am a little slothful though what is essential to know is that she enjoys serving food. (to me) Today Vj ma’am asked us to write about an object in the Kitchen. So, I travelled on a little voyage to Ammas’ kitchen. I saw multiple things. Coffee stained towel near an aged stove, dishes that are washed but not wiped, stainless steel appliances, cups, knives, bowls, and a few white-coloured dabbas having pink-coloured lids.
The chopping board is one of those woods where Amma learned the language of cutting vegetables. In nourishing her way of cooking, the records on this board have its own story, some signed with a piercing edge that granted Amma fingers that were oozing blood. It endures stories of her and Ajji, from their catastrophes to victories, each of those incised in memories. It eternally unites specks of coriander leaves, glossy curry leaves, or moments of onions.
Before the chopping board entered home, Ajji used Elige Mane. (ಈಳಿಗೆಮಣೆ) This was the time when Amma didn’t know cooking, the time when she sat with me and gazed at Ajji performing wonders with kitchen tools. “Why don’t we have big knives like those in a chicken shop?” one day Amma inquired. The answer to this was a loud nerve-racking stare it seems. Like Acharappa and Ajji, this was a couple too. On the bigger Mane Ajji used to sit and grate coconut. On the smaller Mane, she cut onions, capsicums, carrots, and several vegetables.
Hande (ಹಂಡೆ) is the huge vessel used for heating water. The day you bring it glows like afresh henna applied hair. After a week or two, it transforms like the hair dyed with pitch-black. Ajji used this until we had a kerosene stove tagged along with a cylindrical fuel tank, at home. Stove pins nursed it whenever this wasn’t working properly. But now the stove and her pin both are relaxing in the storeroom peacefully.
The steel plates grabbed my attention too. There is a steel plate I got from D’s home. It was a cloudless Saturday morning when I asked Amma if I can go to D’s home after school. Amma agreed willingly. I walked along the street hurriedly just to reach my class, find D and tell her that Amma granted permission. I never liked Saturdays in years gone by; simply because it brought Sunday and I had to stay home without meeting my friends. I didn’t like the neighbours; they were like the waning summer. My cousins? They were like fluid periods. So, there was no choice but to miss my friends.
That afternoon D and I slowly walked just relishing the ice cream we bought from the chilled glasses of Telugu aunt’s store. After reaching her home, D’s brother T started at me with his offensive glance, didn’t seem like he was glad to have me there. He prepared Maggie for both of us and served it to me in a round steel plate. This orbicular plate had a petite split on it. D yelled at him for what he had just done, her elevated sound stabbed my eardrums. I didn’t mind eating on this plate and then we all devoured Maggie heartily. D’s tummy was already popping out. Later we played carrom for some time and then finished our homework. T looked bothered almost all the time I stayed there.
(the second plate from right)
On Monday morning she came to me apologized though I never demanded one. I said that was alright. Why do you have to say sorry for such a small thing? I needed an explanation.
D seemed nervous and miserable at the same time. She unveiled something to me. She wasn’t offended because the plate had a split but because her puppy ate in this. Should I be mad or sad? I didn’t know how to react. I never wanted to disappoint her as I craved for many other Saturdays with her. So, I easily said “I love dogs so it is okay, Maggie was yummy” I can’t assure you if she was fine with what I said, but D threw a kind smile.
I was trying to understand why did T do this. D then reminded me of the day when my Ammamma (great-grandma) hollered at us since D went into the kitchen to drink water. I was lazy and she was thirsty. Ammamma saw D going towards the kitchen, she followed D and asked her directly. “Yaav caste neenu?” It was evident that she was unhappy with D’s answer. Both of us were chased away from the kitchen. I realized how caste easily plunges out of nowhere.
D told me that she sobbed out to her brother about this. The guilt occupied my chest and brain. I believed I deserved it since I never apologized. This had to linger in my mind forever, I asked her if she can get that plate. Denied a bit, however, she got it the next day.
Now whenever I notice this plate at home, it prompts me not to victimize anyone concerning their caste. If it happens unconsciously, say sorry. Amma didn’t regard the plate for a few days. She never knew I brought it from D. Some days later she decided to throw it for how it looked. I protested and told her I needed it because it broke in camp and that it had become a memory of that camp. Amma chuckled fleeting the edges of her mouth.
For the longest time, the kitchen rug was of cement oxide flooring encased with red oxide in all corners quite tailored. Acharappa used to say it is a poor man’s carpet and that he was poor when he moved to this metropolis. The gas stove back then stood on Kadapa Kallu. It is formed by normal sedimentary rocks of the limestone group. (black limestone) Maybe they are of an era past but Amma found them comforting in its subtlety. Modern marbles or tiles don’t excite her.
Though I don’t have a sister, the kitchen might be one. She has experienced every emotion of Amma. From unseasoned simpers to volcanic anger that burst out. If only she could talk, Amma would quit lamenting about me.
Simply sitting and gazing outside the window is my favourite kind of thing to do. I sit by this windowpane merely to be me; the whole of me in this mawkish weather now. Bengaluru is a metropolis that will grant you to traverse three seasons in just a day, super know? In the mornings it is wintertime, about midday it is summer while the sun glares at you and it is the rainy season in the evenings, twilight.
You know what’s normal outside the window? Nothing. It took several days to adapt to this scene amidst a piercing hush. There aren’t many vehicles outside perhaps the kids are playing badminton. Sometime before noon, the vegetable seller named Keshava comes here. Aunts here call him tharkari (vegetable) Keshava. He smiles at this, heartfelt bound into the blaze, for eyes and mouth; also grew in each bit of him.
The police came here the other day while I was relaxing by the window. This fireball in the sky of the afternoon made them slightly troublesome to breathe through those temporary masks. I don’t remember what followed later, Amma asked me to download songs for her.
I now frequently notice some guys playing Lagori and cricket in a deserted site here. (after a very long time) It is delightful to see them play here, I don’t have to grieve from stillness again. Aunties on the other hand yell at them for making noise. Whatsoever reason it is, can they please stop yelling?
Meanwhile in bedtime when neither can I sleep nor can I use my phones, I go back to the window and decide to listen to the sounds, vibrations maybe. Two chaps chatter every day (I can’t resist myself saying this) about getting stoned, about the tears they get while they cut onions, about Public TV and whatnot. I fancy going out to recognize who’s chatting though I do not want them to know that I am snooping.
I never forget to take some time to stare through this window; consuming everything that the universe ought to share. Extraordinary light and a soothing breeze. There’s my Ajji, (Grandma) simply doing all Ajjas’ (Grandpas’) favourite stuff. Because Ajja loved exploring them being exclusively fascinated with the plants, Ajji does it now. She even talks to the plants when she misses Ajja a little too much. Now you see, she looks like an innocent flawless kid ❤
For some reason, I also don’t miss watching a woman, her son and their dog. I have always wanted to know more about this trio but her lips don’t even smile back whenever her eyes caught my attention. I don’t ask. I don’t have to imagine their stories but I do. Why? I don’t know.
Military aunty is named like this since her husband worked in the army. She forever appreciates the afternoon sunlight with her niece. While I sit here, watching her with a beaming smile, she forces the small baby to wave at me. And the sweetheart simpers; for a moment I believe that the world is perfect.
Outside this window, I heed multiple stories. A few of them moving and a few others stagnant. And now outside my window, I see a life that wasn’t expecting this change.
Pariyerum Perumal is an intense movie. Mari Selvaraj is the Debutant filmmaker of this Tamil cinema formed touching upon caste discrimination. The agony of an oppressed is troublesome and thought to evoke. The name of the film and its protagonist symbolizes the literal meaning as The God on a Horse. Perhaps his story is not conforming to his name in the movie. He joins a government law college in Tirunelveli. He says he wants to become Dr. Ambedkar but finds himself as a square peg in a round hole. (in the college)
The idea of beginning this movie with Karuppi the dog is striking and touching. Ellam manusanum inga onnu illa (Not every human being is the same) and the viewer is prompted to tears, here lives a genuine discomfort. The blues and melancholy doesn’t wait throughout the film because of Anand, Perumal’s classmate. The film is loaded with effective statements and observations. Despite these, the movie doesn’t get dark perhaps remains optimistic.
Jothi Mahalakshmi, usually called Jo is a well-born (upper-class) girl. She encourages him to learn English, a language Perumal doesn’t know, and the for language the lecturers at college conduct classes in. They refuse to explain the same in Tamil, since, it is a ‘law college.’ Eventually, Jo becomes his friend. Her feelings for him grow deeper, and she falls in love. Later she invites Perumal to her sister’s wedding and the marriage hall is named after her. This is where Jo’s father takes him, with a trustworthy hand, guiding him to a room. What happens later is something you know, that happens in many other caste-based films. One aspect that stands out is that he doesn’t hate Perumal, he is only restrained by the social evils. Jo is unaware of these disparities.
In an interview with Baradwaj Rangan, Mari sir says, “I used to wonder if caste was even relevant. It was like a monster. People have told me that they haven’t seen caste in action. I tell them that suddenly caste will pop up in your life… you will have to deal with it.” These words cast my mind back to an experience. I was around eleven years old maybe, my friend P had come to visit me and my great grandmother was around. P smiled at her gently. Instead of smiling back, grandma questioned her — which caste? “ST” (Scheduled tribe) She said.
After a while, we were playing and P was thirsty. I asked her to drink water from the kitchen for which she agreed. Grandma noticed this and hollered at me. She yelled at P as well. I don’t remember what she said precisely but the reason she stated was ‘ST people are low-classed, they can’t enter the bedroom, kitchen, or any other place except the living room’ Caste simply jumped out of nowhere. My whats and whys would never be answered. Ajja or Amma said to leave the topic, and I left it gradually. I started crying for not letting my friends come home, that’s when this dilemma was fixed.
Just as Mari sir says, “I don’t think there is a greater weapon than education” the film explicates the significance of education. The phenomenal surge of a Dalit against multiple forms of oppression and several such aspects is carried in diverse courses. The conclusion suggests the opening for an unsettled ceasefire. Please watch the movie.
A screenshot from Sagar’s (birthday) Zoom party- 2020
While Covid-19 caught hold in Bengaluru and all over the world, I started welcoming emails from this.com, that.com, and whatsoever.com. Oh well, Zoom is connecting centuries of personalities. Now, I and my friend Sharanya were talking about how Zooms’ usage inflated to the top during social distancing.
She cast my mind back to the previous year when we had applied for an internship and the interview happened through Zoom. “Took me a whole evening to figure it out but, one year back for our interview, I don’t think either of us knew it’s existence” she states.
While we chat, Amma calls me to help her with the webinar she has on Zoom. Good evening sir, she spoke with her enthusiastic smile.
Ma but the audio is muted – I said grinning.
She overlooked me because she was so much excited watching all of her colleagues on screen. They were all smiling at each other too, it never stopped. Even when the call was getting held due to the internet issues, I could see their grimaces froze with a radiant smile.
Amma is fascinated with technology and it’s usage. She is bored using Facebook, yesterday she urged me to assist her with the Instagram logistics. She has already discovered the Close friends option on the grams’ stories.
Birthday parties also happen on Zoom now. E’s doggie and R’s doggie are also waving at each other on Zoom. My annoying relatives are showing their cuisines and messes, their meals and diets, their walls and tables, beyond the town, to narrate the entire saga together.
The blast of video conferences banged and unlocked my suffocating concerns, anxieties.
Wholesome collection 