Dilo

empty plate

When you look back at your past, there are many things that stand out apart. As if these few bits and pieces in the collage held special meaning - the montage that comes out is simply prestine.

Or no great significance at all.

It could be as simple as the scent of that oil under the burning wick in the Madurai Dargah. It could be as big as standing with your mother in the long queue in the Collector's office awaiting your turn to know your 12th standard score. All the same, they are memories. Etched deep in your mind in gold. And when you least expect it, they flash in front of your eyes and take you to that very moment in time when they happened. You want to stay there a little longer reliving those moments. To get a closer look. To stand before that boy. To let him see you, but not recognize you. To look at that boy and wonder.

All of us wearing navy blue knickers and white half sleeve shirts tucked in...chasing dragon flies in the shrubs with no respect to the burning sun... those were the days of innocense. Of no care. All that mattered were the dragon flies. There - there's one...thats the one with the multicoloured tail...like a tiny helicopter.......walking tip toe with the black BATA shoes on those thorns, and besides those violet flowers shaped like funnels which cry in milk if you hurt them, the white socks helping the cause of pollination......trying with all the might to not make a sound, gently bringing out the hand from behind, towards the back of the dragon, studying its rhythm of when its wings meet and when they spread... calculating by instinct, pushing the hand closer...closer...SNAP....Gotcha! THAT FEELING!!! Immediately announcing to the world what was just accomplished...and getting that stare from the classmate because you scared away his dragon fly.

Then I remember the picture of me throwing a bit paper to my classmate "Paruppu" and both of us getting caught by Shiny miss.

Being made the class leader by Jannath miss...When she pinned the black chip with my name etched on it on my shirt above my pocket in front of the whole class - I remember thinking how my mother would feel seeing this.

My mother being told not to punish me for being naughty by Margaret miss...

Exam season. Exam pads were suddenly cricket bats. The few privileged ones whose aunts lived "gulf-la" had the steel bats with smaller holders with alligator teeth. Others had to make do with wooden pads with big bulky paper holders with that the characteristic thin steel blunt pin protruding through the hole in the handle...Cholakkaruthu (half a maize pod, stripped of its pearls) was the ball...the red bricks from the construction site beyond the fence in the PF building were brought to mark the "bails" on the neem tree. The crease was not one and a half times the length of the pad - who were you kidding? The cholakkaruthu was also used for another serene game called "yerippandhu". Its a game that should rightly hold its place in the olympics. Any number of people can play this game - from 3 to 15. The game is started with a ritual that will put the newzealand rugby HAKA routine to shame. The boy with the special ball shouts "PANDHEY PANDHEY", everyone else shouts back "ENNA PANDHEY"...the first boy shouts "THOOKKI POTTA"...then all shout "YERI PANDHEYYYYYY". The translation of these sacred lyrics goes like this - "BALL BALL"...."WHAT BALL?"..."If I throw"...."ITS THROW BALL". Now dont you dare make fun of this practice. The ball is now aimed carefully at the closest boy and thrown with such force that Arnold's rocket launcher in Commando will bow down to his powers. Everyone checks to see if he was the chosen one...but the real chosen one will know by the sweet sound of cholakkaruthu on supple skin.

Pictures in my mind of my cute sister in her green petty coat with eyes half open to confront the bright sun :)

Girls. In 4th standard, they were just... you know... shall I say... did not stand apart, did not grab much attention, did not waste our time, let us mind our own business. Well, I dont know if they knew, but the boys used to play a game...if they happened to touch or even brush by a girl, everyone around that boy would touch their hair... the victim now has to look out for a boy who is not holding his hair, then touch him (pass the curse) and now hold his own hair. Thats how it was played and I bet the girls didnt have a clue :)

My birthday is June 4th and I never got to wear "colourdress" to school on my birthday because school would always reopen on June 5th. After the summer holidays in the middle years of school, it was always fun to get back...friends...the boys always remained boys but the girls started noticeably changing a lot. Once in a while some people from outside would come and call only the girls out to another empty class room. We boys were left to wonder what the heck was happening in there. There was a rumor that one boy knew what was going - the girls were being shown some videos. Why this partiality? When they all came back to class in a row, they all looked scared, looking down. Some were giggling. They were all carrying something in their hands trying hard to hide it. We asked Shruti what it was but she wouldnt say.

Jumping while riding the kinetic with Ammi sitting behind and screaming at me to stop..haha...she gets really scared when I do such things...well she has every right to be scared...its not like I have accident immunity looking at my road record.

Those were the days.

It had just rained. The sun was out, giving birth to the faintest rainbow. So Ammi need not take the auto to office. I could drop her this saturday morning since I did not have work today. So we started in Abba's Hero Honda. She wore a silk saree that day because there was some function in her office.

I chose to take short cuts whenever I could to avoid Chennai traffic that knows no mercy even on Saturdays. From Valluvarkottam to get to Jemini, theres a nice not-so-well-known-shortcut that I enjoy taking. We cruised along. Ammi was already getting late. She would pull my shirt from behind when I sped. This was the button to slow me down because I was wearing a helmet that was impervious to words like "slow down". But songs would make it right through to my ears. Ammi and I that day were singing old heartwarming songs - "Zindagi bhar nahin...bhulegi woh barsaat ki raat...Ek anjaan haseena se....mulaakat ki raat..."...I pulled up the visor to make sure my contribution to the song could be heard.... and to enjoy the cool breeze blowing on my face...and to smell that smell of sand after the rain. Right then...

Right then Ammi pulled my shirt hard...but I wasnt even going 30kmph. I sensed something wrong and pulled over to the side of the road. Ammi got down after the Premier Padmini zoomed past. She pointed me to the man sitting on the steps of a petty shop that hadnt even opened that early. He was wearing bits and pieces of cloth that was once been a proud purchase. Not by him, it was clear. His lungi had a million holes. He hadnt cleaned himself for God knows how long. And what was more clear was that he had not eaten. For God knows how long. Ammi opened the side box in the bike, whose lock I once broke open because I lost its key. She took out her tiffin box. And without a moment of hesitation except to look right-left-right as she was taught in school, started to cross the road and walked towards him. She asked him something or said something that I could not hear from across the road. She bent down as he thrusted his plate towards her feet, she moved a few steps back. Opened her tiffin box and emptied its contents into his plate, gave a smile to him.

I kept looking across the road for an eternity after she had walked back to me, and put her hand on my right shoulder, stepped on the pedal and sat herself behind me, and said lets go. I turned on the ignition, kicked the bike to start it, put it on gear and moved. There were no more songs. I could sing no more. I pulled shut my visor, and cried. Tears started gushing out of my eyes. I couldnt speak a word. I was too moved, too proud, to be her son. The image from across the road, of my mother in a red and crimson silk saree bending down to transfer the lunch she had hurriedly packed, into the plate of a beggar that morning - moved me beyond words, beyond anything in this world that has moved me. I cried and cried behind the visor inside my helmet. I tried my best to not show. Ammi does not have a clue. Dont tell her.

When I get old, and Allah decides to relieve me of memories, I wish he would be so kind as to let me have just one for myself - this one scene from the collage - that of my mother in silk smiling at the beggar.

posted by Chicken 65 @ 11:39 AM