The Fast

Th Fast

Fifth november was my brother's marriage anniversary.
I was more awed by the fact that it was Guy Fawkes day in U.K. About this I reminded my parents to ask my well travelled bro when they rang him up to wish him. On second thoughts the sentimental cancerian in biley, my bro, might consider any parallels between the gunpowder plot and his wedding day insulting.So dear bro, no comparisions intended.

I have been staying with my parents on and off since 30 sep, which was Maha Ashthami,or the eighth day of the 10 day Durga Puja Festivities.

On 30th, enroute to Salt Lake from Fortune City,my parents took me to my cousins, bonnie and bobby. We had samosas, posed for bonnie's camera phone, presented my kid sisters with some of my choicest   dresses. A rather tight  squeeze for me now. Plus these  two sisters of mine were really turning out to be very pretty and very intelligent.
Consider it  my Puja  good deed.

Now on  the 1st of October my parents had an obnoxious visitor to their flat, who while barely 7 years older than me , by virtue of an early marriage to a neighbour, was called "aunty" by me.
I had been introduced to her when I was in college, so I found it mildly  irritating that she attempted to talk to me as if I were 6 yrs old. To add injury to insult this well meaning lady started using a very personal and offensive nickname for me, which only my parents and big bro were ever allowed to use.

Why I blew it I never will know, probably because my dad could jokingly have advised "Aunty" to call me by my formal, and infinitely more pleasant name, or perhaps because she had butted into our small crowded kitchen where baba and I were experimenting with a coconut dresssing for a fish dish and it was not coming out too well.

Excuses,excuses.I was prepared to be conciliatory when "Aunty", advised baba that next time she will call on him and come, and I icily asked her if that was to find out if his daughter was at home or not. since all I had done so far was purse my lips and grumble my discontent in a muted tone to my Baba, I could scarcely see why after offending me, she should choose to take umbrage.
So instead, I did, and I equally obnoxiously  advised her that as Baba and I kept the same company, if she was put off by mine there really was no need for her to take his cell no.

Well, after that "aunty" departed in high dudgeon,advising me that I was mentally "sick." Well vice versa.

Next being an excitable  quarrelsome creature, (really what  was I thinking those days!), I  had this almighty scene with my father, where I asked him if like saturn he had to be the baleful planet that drew such malignant people into the orbit of his family and friends.

My father who is overly relegious took my comment with extreme hurt, as for us Hindus, Saturn, the arbiter of fate,is such a feared deity, that those who do worship him, never do so at home but always in a public temple.

I am a bit of a sceptic, so all I meant was to use the kind of word weapon dad understood, to indicate his daughter was dead serious about how offensive she found some of the company he kept.

Well after this I really did feel mental, so I missed breakfast, lunch tea, et all.
The husband arrived and persuaded us to all sit at the dinner table together for a meal.Lucky for us, as dad and mom too had not been able to take much more than tea,toast and biscuits while their daughter was on a hunger strike to register both her protest and hurt.

The reason for writing this entire sequence of events is to show that while I am not really mental, how close we all come to being that way at times, and how unkindly calling a person "sick" can actually make her react like a sicko...

On fourth november I was calmly sickened by a fact,a fact that this blog will not reveal.
However much I wish to feel relief by blogging it out of my system.

To go back ,to O ct 17th, my birthday...This was not a good year for my birthday to be,and lets leave it at that for now. I have no words for what has been happening since 31st july.Lets see how it all turns out and maybe next year I shall write about this time of my life.
Or maybe a decade later.This is the 2014 me reading my 2006 self.And I am still not  ready.

Suffice it to say on oct 18 I moved to Naiya Patti,which is 15 min from my parents place,and houses my bro's tiny self sufficient flat.Baba wanted me to run it for a few days and give it a semblance of order,as it lies neglected while my bro is elsewhere in the world. Once a month dad opens it up and cleans it,but we felt by staying a weekend we could get more done.

Sure, like a battle or two and a whole lot of thinking and writing and cleaning.
I think the whole fourth november obsession started in Naiya Patti.

hey! I can't write here anymore -not now at least- its 12:12 a.m./ I should wrap up now,do some house work, go to bed.
Hah!2006 self, boy you were lazy  a mental basket case.
Care for meto   complete your incomplete ravings ?
On  second thoughts, I have got housework to do too!

All rights reserved
(c) Amrita Valan 2014

The digital Demon Doll

The digital demon Anto, my husband is upset at me. I have been super critical of his efforts to transfer my blogs onto a new template, as by mistake Anto the tech tantric who barely reads poetry has interchanged my poem on Anger with the title of another poem on Peace.
so the blog blithely titled "Peace," has now become a hilarious ode to a 3 faced virago, a shrewish she devil who eats men on toast, or swallows them whole.

Digital demon doll has got me down at the moment as a satanic she devil because I whooped with laughter all around his ears and hooted and jeered.... because he had not even caught on to his deed. Afterwards with that angelic dimbulb smile of a child he had turned to ask me if now it was alright.

When I emphatically stated why and how it was not alright, mister digitally dampened, got all upset and sulky.
Right now he has repaired the damage and gone to sleep on the sofa in a fit of sulks and dire threats about how I am somehow to blame for the misnaming of my craftily deceptive poems.

Actually digital dumbo and his technodisastrous poetosauress are 2 of a kind.

All rights reserved
(c) Amrita Valan 2014

Beauty

Too much exposure to beauty

Beauty every day

Renders beauty ordinary

Too passe and commonplace

I mean to say what if

 beauty lost her face?

What was so invaluable

That could be left ?

Futility took its place

Then I understood beauty should

Be

Guarded secret precious

An unforgettable treat

A novelty

A retreat

A quiet summer evening’s return 

Strolling back

Bag of vegetables in hand

To one’s home.

Or a chill wind blowing through veins

Piggybacking on his speedy motorbike

hands numbing

Exquisite relief at the  sight

Of sweet home

Beauty at your doorsteps

Just what you need.

Beauty

neither rationed nor 

tumbling out of  taps

Beauty

Wandering in walking out
Unexpectedly familiar guest.

Haunting melodic earthbound erratic nostalgic  poetry in arrest.

Woosome winsome virginal ravishing 

Shy Coquettish strong and handsome

Cute lovable foxy funny

 pure child like sweet fallible

Gracious graceful radiant lovely

Knowing intuitive ardent comely 

Brutal manly boyish gamine
Tortured serene eyes like famine

Teaser. Trickster. Cordial creature

Pleasant.Pious fresh desire

Unearthly brilliant muse genius

Disciplined mentor. Devoted  mother

dutiful loyal faithful follower. 

Kind compassionate worn caregiver.

Joyous victorious elated winner.

screaming agonized  defeated loser.

ecstatic hopeful life giver.
Nursing and sheltering Madonna-esque

Mother.

Sad and sorrowful resigned brave heart

Stoical stone like pieta

Shedding tears of silence

At the eve of parting

But never till  child has turned the

corner.

Grieving mournful broken by succour

at dreams departing chaste Lips of beauty

Forever praying
Raining blessings on

beloved.
At the last leave-taking

Bidding goodbye
To beauty that was creation

Beauty

 that was life  and action

That Is and  never ever shall

Be

Be sure the beauty of

The dear departed the first beloved

The newly separated the long underrated

The always overworked the forever unvalued

The too much maligned the too little privileged

The worthy unpraised The children

The lover The father The husband

The elder brother

Kid brother and sweet baby sister

Who walked her wonderful

First walk just for you

The baby who smiled

To light up your world too.

The friend who just knew you through and through

The richly undeserved fan

Who rooted and rooted for you

The challenging enemy the scornful haters

The rightful pride that made you better

To all these many

Beauties

Beauty bids her

Adieu

Beauty how can I

Say it too?

Unasked unwanted

Heart longed for

You came

Surely not to say

“adieu, 

Carpe Diem?”

God so much beauty

In this world I've seen

Even Stillborn and unborn

beauty

in my heart has been

Bid you goodbye beauty?

How shall I?

Take me along

Make death the promise

That beauty

Itself shall not die.

In the moment of truth

In the peace of dreams

In bright light and summer shade

Dark woods and deep glades

Fancy dainty alluring shimmering

Elfin sylvan seraphic mystic

Celestial majestic

Lost

In the wreaths and whorls of heavenly flowers

Splendidly splintered

compelling spellbinding an entire universe

Into an anthem of glory

Beauty forever brightening

Dazzling charming caressing

Ennobling creating

Abundant earthy blessings.

With a divine touch

Not enough said yet

Less said the more

Beauty I rant too much.

God  thank thee

For Beauty's touch. 

All rights reserved

(c) Amrita Valan 2014

.

Peace BCR

And sooth sayeth Akshara
Sooth sayeth I.
Peace if it rains on earth
Peace if only a clouds sails the sky.

I am Akshara
The written word
The pen is the only weapon
I know.
The world is
How you write it
The word is
How you think it
The act
How you magine
The scene
How you feel
And I know
Joy
or
Pain
is so
What you  
Make of it.

So make it Real and
good and true
Peace reigns
When hearts rise
Into the  blue-white hue.

So peace be
Unto you and you
And even unto you,
And
Blessed be,
All.

All rights reserved
(c) Amrita Valan 2014

Anger

I am Trikaya the
Terrible
Three faced
Woman
I speak many
Tongues
And
Interpret
The language of your
Desires on
A foreign shore.

Like buttery toast
I swallow
You; crunch
While slurping
I gorge
You are besotted
I smile in vindicated glory
You smile in sloth,
Enslaved.
Enraged
I suction you in
And spit and spray out
The waste
And
Always
I take
Your soul
For granted.

I straddle upon a broomstick and see
Blackholes of vision
I am at the event horizon
Of your
future
termination
I am an annihilator
Through
The worm hole
Of destiny
I always seek
The End
Is my
Mission.

Mother of Pearl BCR

Mother of Pearl

I see my mother’s face
So peaceful, so bright
Eyes luminescent in her pale forehead
And cheeks framed by green leaves –

She is in the darkest woods
And she is in
The brightest
skies.

Her Image towers over
Woods and dales
I see the lightest tracing of her smile
In the wispy trail of white clouds
On the faint blue sky.

Somehow she is more power-packed
Than all of nature in her greenest glory.

Somehow she is –
My mother.

My robust frame
Counterpoises
Her doll-like figure.

The serene calm peace
She radiates
Takes me back to being
a sleepy babe
In my mother’s girding lap
Safe and secure-

For me-
This weakest, frailest of fragile
Beings
Is a signpost
Of Love’s kindly strength.

And she-
Will be my victory

When she and I –
are no more…

Till then
I shall see her in my dream’s eye
Haunted by her love
Till the day
I die.

All rights reserved

(c) Amrita Valan 2014

Idol of Clay

Idol of Clay

At the very last bend of the streaming river,
I came across a bunch of flowers
Floating on wild waves..

Up and down they bobbed and
 dipped
Frantic frenzied in their bid
To rise,
Valiant to survive…

Five white petals with a red heart
At the center...
Each brave flower sweetly smiled 

it’s sad
 goodbye...

Each cried –
I am special – dear adieu
O master maker time doler
For the short span of my
Life –thanks and
Goodbye...

And such is life too
Soon we die-

 jumping in we float awhile

We bravely sink and swim and arise from
Dawn till dusk 

we roll your hand of dice
While the heavy idol we created from clay
and worshipped
And immersed in the stream
` Goes to rest…into
The mud-
 bed of centuries
At the bottom of the rivulet,
Where the molten mud and clay of
stream and idol
Shall embrace and entwine
Till the pale of
Eternity.

And so
The Bed of Time Rocks us all to our rest.
The Living The Breathing, The Sentient,
The Idol and –
The dead.

And in the interim passage of hours,
Time blinds us with the beauty
Of its simplest handmaidens…

The flower, the bud, the blossom,
The chirpy cuckoo, the plaintive nightingale,
The goldsyrupy  sunshine,
The  melancholy moonlight,
Fire in the sky, wind in the water,
A folk song floating in night ether.


The breeze that briskly grows
Into a sharp salt wind
And howls into a screeching storm
Wailing walls of hurricane
The dolorous drizzle that turns to a
Downpour
Mellows to a shower and
Swiftly shrieks in raging blinding sheets of rain

Nature startled- thunders at itself and flashes lightning messages
To bring back calm...
Calm is discontent
To be so
And
Spreads its torment
To tear the fabric of our universe.

And so it goes...

Time turns out its full bag
Of tricks and treats for us,
And till the autumn of our lives
We blissfully forget
The Treat is almost over, but
The Final Trick
Remaining…


Death
The last rabbit
Drawn out of
Time’s hat
Raises it Baleful
Red eyes…

Right this way

Off to wonderland

Down the rabbit hole

Alice  Alice

O Sweet child – Help!


And then –
We remember,
How gently the Idol lay in its restful bed
How it savored its muddy caress
And how blissful will it be,
When no longer the
Flower has to bob up and down-
But can disperse the tired withered petals
Summon courage to its tiny little
Heart
And Return the Favor
Of both Tricks and Treats
To Time.

All rights reserved

(c) Amrita Valan 2014

Chez Moi

Too painful to write about the house that wants to be a home and looks like a mess. youth hostel without a caretaker.

Once in a French movie and in a song I recognized a line with my painfully acquired French ear. When I realized what it meant I burst into laughter…The line was “Voulez vous couches avec moi?

But where? chez moi or chez toi?
Perchance votre chateau? Home is a hope that the hideous dream you had is over and now you're home safe.And if you prefer your friends homes to yours perchance yours was just a wooden chateau. 

Today I burst into tears because I could not remember where home was. And memory carried me back to 6 Mayfair road, Owners Court, flat no: 24 B.

By coincidence usually  a trip to the city, and I was at the mouth of a street that led to the unhappy-happy home of my eleven year old self…

Let me incant the happy memories...
Lying awake the night before my eleventh birthday, the last birthday that this home would see. Too painfully eager to know what treats lay in store to sleep. tired out from anticipating the fun ahead, that was my first unhappy-happy moment…

The night we arrived at our new flat, I was decked out like a dodo and almost five years old. I admired the flat’s elegant proportions, airy balcony, some of the new and some of the strangely familiar furniture gravely and - accepted it as completely natural.  Not once did  I wonder who it all belonged to? Why so many familiar pieces of furniture were in this place ? Who was the host of what was evidently a party thrown for all of my daddy’s relatives?

Finally I must have decided that as the food was yum, and plenty of cousins to play with, it did not really matter much why we were there…

The next morning was my first beautiful day in the new flat where we stayed for six long years. Six lovely somewhat lonely years.

Never hopeless and dead like adult years. 

But back to my first morning.Ma bathed her sleepy but curious daughter in the beige porcelain bathtub  unlike the claw-footed monstrosity of our previous home.I still remember the rough and grainy texture of it.The tingling blood I tasted on my tongue when I fell in it.I have a tiny scar on my tongue now..

I had asked ma what why were we still in this house, and ma had placidly enlightened. ( how slow her nearly 5-year old still was.), “We, your dad and I, and your brother and you, will live here.  From now on this is our home.”
O! That explained everything!

To this day I wish I could repossess that easy facility of belief in a mother’s loving voice that turns a strange house overnight into a home.

Now I vaguely remember, there must have been at least one previous visit with my father and one or two of his sisters, to show off our new flat - because prior to the night of the housewarming party, I remember wading into the corner room full of water, in this very same flat and my father explaining that the faulty plumbing of the bedroom with the attached bath needed to be fixed, while I thought how nice it would be to permanently have a roomful of water to splash about in.

After this memorable beginning there is a steady trickle of fun as well as funny moments…

Like my brother advising me to share my chocolate with him first so that his chocolate can remain intact for us to attack the next day.
The next day his chocolate is mysteriously absent from the fridge.

My brother advising that, as he was older than me with far more homework to tackle, he should own half of my study table in addition to his own, and as his devoted slave readily agreed, he promptly placed a yellow sponge divider on my table, to mark his new domain.

My brother compiling a list of books that he would sell or barter away for new books to read, advising me how the books he was selling belonged only to him and were certainly not any of those books gifted to me.
His indignant disgust that I had finally learnt to read, when I solemnly opened the cover of a book of nursery rhymes, that he planned to sell and pointed out to him the following legend:
“To Amrita, Love from – Baba and MA.”

My brother condescending to play catch in the drawing room with me, missing a throw, and shattering a beautiful Chinese vase. The next instant the front door is open and my big brother has disappeared through it. Ma takes my gaping surprise at his vanishing act as guilt and of course I get it, heavily.

My brother taking advantage of my childish need for an afternoon siesta to creep off and play cricket with his friends, visit the ice-skating rink, and execute his other shenanigans without the pesky tag-along sister at his heels.

The shenanigans involved training his devoted pack of slum dwelling children that he planned to build up a future Indian army with, the same loyal army which would periodically desert him  

as soon as their stock of sweet cigarettes and other goodies were over.

And return to pledge allegiance as soon as that same stock of sweet cigarettes and goodies were replenished. 

These goodies were of course bought and distributed in our drawing room, by my bountiful big brother, the fledgling patriot, to the hungry army named “SPI,” – short for “Secular Planet India” and jealously but silently lusted after by me, the greedy, tongue-tied sister who was excluded from the army, against her will. Boys Only, of course.

I did try to gatecrash a meeting, held in that same famous room with the attached bath, now bone-dry, obviously, by the simple procedure of walking up to the closed door, and knocking. As two of my brother’s henchmen opened the door I correctly gave the password, which I had overheard and smartly memorized and then looked inside longingly, knowing sooner or later, goodies would be distributed. The boys were amused and asked the ringleader if his kid sister was allowed entry. The big bro disloyally denied permission to enter and I was given a gentle yet firm shove to clear the passage for legitimate entrants.

The other activities of this club involved buying toy bows, arrows, swords and spears and practicing guerrilla ambushes and valiant combats in the vacant plot of land overlooking our apartment house. This was an overgrown jungle where my brother could organize imaginary warfare.

I was not really keen to be a full time member and warrior.
Just an honorary participant with rights to the sweet stuff.

Since the commando training part did not interest me, I overcame my dudgeon and insult at being pushed out so unceremoniously and even magnanimously chose to overlook that not one sweet cigarette came my way. No pain, no gain.

The goodies were Investments to lure recruits, and not Gifts to be wasted on civilians.

The other reason I was so forgiving apart from a natural sense of logic and justice was because I was an optimistic fool.
Once not too long ago, I had been given honorary membership of the first prototype of a club that my brother had formed, comprising of his 2 best friends and me.

I had been allowed a berth only by virtue of an alliterative necessity. They wanted the club to be named after their first name initials, and Biley, Babu and Vijju’s names made the name of the club a boring “BBV”; However if one of the “B” stood for Buri, the nickname of yours truly, then by inserting my brother’s formal name “Sumit,” the club could then become the more polished and euphonic, “BBSV.”

Even Badges were made and distributed cementing my indisputable right to membership.
So I patiently waited, confident I would be needed again in some such way.

I Particularly coveted the role of treasurer, which meant not just being in charge of cash, but being an integral part of the buying, stockpiling and distribution of goodies. This position was bestowed on an 8 or 9-year-old Boy called Rangan, maybe because he was deemed too young and delicate to fight.

I resented his appointment as he was not much older than me, and I after all had blood ties to El Capitan.

The cherubic Rangan though was decent and even invited me to his birthday, and by my ma’s strict instructions this was one occasion my slippery brother could not wriggle out of to evade being my escort. The party was most fun with boisterous games of hide and seek, treasure hunt and darkroom, though I was mostly in the dark and kept an eagle eye on my brother terrified he would give me the slip.

Another such occasion was my brother’s forced chaperoning of me to the Russian Film Festival held at the local ice skating rink.
Ma mistakenly thought I would enjoy the cultural experience, but watching maggots crawl on rotting meat meant for the sailors in “Battleship Potemkin” has always colored my opinion of Russian movies.
But the high point of the trip was racing to keep up with my sullen brother who told me this was a one-time treat and not to expect to accompany him on all 7 days of the festival. I cheekily told him to touch base with Ma on this. I believe his retort was something akin to “ scram, Tattletale.”

But little ms Tattle-Tale Tag Along had had enough of the grim and sordid fare dished out at the Movies, and would have preferred Ma bullying the bro into taking me skating as I had never seen snow or ice, but this she never did. Typical of unpredictable grown ups, she was more afraid of me spraining my ankle on ice, than having a nightmare or 2 where all the most delicious food was stuffed with eeky gooey maggots.

So Instead I had to be content picturing a vast indoor circular stadium of smooth blue-white ice, lit with pale gold lamps, and with foggy wisps of air that misted around it.
I even peopled my first imaginary escapist landscape with incongruous tutu clad ballerinas who danced past my stumbling brother.

The daydreamer was sharpening her milk teeth on her first misery, neglect from an adored elder brother.

So to continue, I waited and watched for the right moment when again as past experience had taught me, I would become indispensable to the club. That alas, did not happen. If anything as time went by security tightened.

There was one comic moment however.

My brother explaining to his eleven or twelve year old friends that it was safe to discuss their secret club details in front of me because “She can’t understand English.”

My silent moment of glee when I discover that I have perfectly understood what he said, and ergo I could understand English!

And so, I could regularly sit at all his secret meetings with a deadpan face and gain ultimate access to all classified data.

In my triumph I silently try out tentative English sentences, and find they make perfect sense just like those uttered by my brother’s gang.

Of course I am far too shy to utter a word in English for a good year or so, till I
discover the world of Enid Blyton, and the joys of the English countryside and the life of English school children, becomes my soul food.

My first Enid Blyton book: was a birthday gift, “Mr. Pink whistle Interferes.” Which I found weird and queer, strange but entertaining, I thought all foreigners were like Mr. Pink-whistle.

Then one magic day I got hold of the exciting adventure book of Blyton’s. “The Island of Adventure” suddenly swung open a massive door to a vast new world of sunshine. What I most remember about the book was my joyful surprise at the discovery of the existence of a kind protective big brother and his devoted little sister! I read the book in the first grade and Enid Blyton kept her hold on me all through the 8th grade though by then I was reading more of Agatha Christies and Hitchcock and Alistair Macleans than Blytons.

Still more memories rise like bubbles to the surface, let me sort out the different
Worlds each “bubble” belongs to.

The Biggest bubble is not surprisingly the “Brother Bubble.” After all in those years of toddle hood where my all-knowing all-powerful big brother went I yearned to follow.
I cannot in this connection leave out a few more queer sad mad memories…

The first time rain guarding sheets of wicker or jute, which in Bengali we call “Chiks”
Were hung by Baba in the balcony, my brother and I were fascinated by the rope and Pulley system of rolling them up and down. Soon the two of us were busily sitting on two cane stools or “Morrahs” and methodically tugging the “chiks” up and down.
Of course there being two “chiks” soon came the question of ownership. So though no one had assigned the job to us, we proudly allocated a “chik” to each party to pull and roll as we pleased, and god forbid that one of us should touch the other’s “chik.”

The sad memory is in its own way funny. Baba was in the habit of sending down a toy, a box of candy, cake or sweets in a company car, that he had ordered for us while at office.
Always neatly organized into 2 separate and equal bundles.
Even for Diwali, though the 2 boxes of firecrackers that were delivered held a differing variety of age-appropriate crackers, the quantity was strictly equal.

But on the day I am describing arrived a single beautiful sponge hat of bright hues. The crown of the hat was a bright candy pink and the surrounding brim was a lovely lozenge yellow. It looked like a hat made out of confectionary. To my girlish eyes it was like a hat from Hansel and Gretel, like the gingerbread house, it looked good enough to eat.

My brother pounced on the hat immediately confident it was surely meant for him.
After all sometimes Cricket passes arrived and these were usually for Baba and my bro,as I was too young to waste a pass on. Maybe he mistook it for a sunshade. Puzzled but young enough to appreciate the carnival of colors he played with the lovely hat while I looked longingly. Twirling the pretty hat he kept asking the driver if there was any other gift, a second more boyish hat. Then as the driver protested that one and only one hat had been sent something akin to sad suspicion darkened my brother’s face, as both he and I realized with a start, such a feminine hat must have been meant for me.

I do not remember if Ma rang up Baba and confirmed this or we got it out of the driver’s mouth that it was meant for baby sister, but the sudden joy of ownership was erased for me,when I saw the sad puppy expression on my suddenly childlike elder brother’s face.
Inexplicably my heart tugged but I dared not either present him the hat or gently remind him that as the bigger of the 2, he often received privileges I did not, like special passes to cricket, korea vs.filipino basketball and once even Russian Ballet, because I was too small.
What a sad defeat for a little boy who was somehow desperate, to come first always in his parents’ eyes!

As daddy’s darling girl, how was I to know what made him tick the way he did – generous enough to spend the last of his pocket money on sweets for his pal – but mean enough to grudge a useless hat for his little sister…


Then there is the “Birthday Bubble.”
Birthdays are a magical time for any little girl, bunches of streamers, packets of multi colored rubber balloons arrive, sometimes party hats and party favors too, if it’s a simpler kind of party, colorful paper bags are bought, and small gifts are packed in for the little guests.
These gifts range from toffees and bubblegum to colored pencil erasers, sharpeners, whistles and invariably the little birthday girl craves a few of these cute necessities and removes as many for her own use as she can get away with. Till Ma entices her to put all but a bagful back as anyway she will get the biggest best gifts of all, as it is her special day.

And finally around three o clock in the afternoon, after much concerted balloon blowing and wall festooning, dad sends down the birthday cake, which is rich and gooey with dark chocolate and white icing, along with The Gift.

Baba’s gifts were special in their power to delight if not me, at least my brother, as from the day that he could make me understand, like an expert snake charmer my brother could and would persuade, hypnotize and dictatorially advise me, what I should ask daddy for, on my big day.

So I got a series of unfeminine gifts ranging from a miniature plastic golf set to steel roller skates The latter I actually became quite proficient with.

After that the riot of guests arrive, eat, drink, laugh, sing, play games and leave.

But not without leaving behind a gift wrapped package!
Oh! The joy of unwrapping gifts with cards that address you!

One birthday I received almost 16 dolls, one could be bathed, one had separate sets of under and night wear and shoes, one could open and shut beautiful blue eyes, (This one I called roseanna as that was written on the box it came in.), one had a plastic frock and washable hair.

Some mothers make their daughters submit their toys after cursory play, especially the most beautiful dolls for show in the wardrobe.

My mother allowed me to freely raise the doll family as my own.
Free of care I washed the hair of the washable doll and brushed it to baldness, I removed the plastic frock of another doll to check for any outlet for the doll to go to potty.
Disappointed with the smooth uniform pink flesh, Bro and I gleefully pinpricked an outlet in the relevant area, after unscrewing the doll’s head, and filling the hollow shell with fridge-water.

Then of course the joyful applying of pressure to the mid section of the doll after the head had been put back on. And hey presto! Look! My doll is toilet-trained!

The beautiful blue eyed Roseanna with her red pumps was never experimented on. Deemed far too precious I suppose.

The other loot was boring stuff like towels and flasks, though it was birthdays that introduced me to the welcome world of Enid Blyton and much later on, the mindless
romances of Mills and Boons.

Then there was my birthday that the guys simply forgot.
I think the second child is somehow vaccinated against insecurity, because she is more a planned treat and not an experiment or obligation to fulfill one’s duties of procreation.Unless of course the second child is an unwanted accident.

I know that is why I was not even mildly disturbed to discover at age of 8 or 9 that my entire family including me had forgotten my birthday.
In fact I was busy at play when my grandma accompanied by her 2 then unmarried daughters burst in with presents and sweets for me. Ma was mortified but finally all the grown ups had a laugh, Baba was rung up to remind him that an impromptu birthday party was called for and I was suddenly made much of!

In fact my father assorted a respectable bunch of grown up uncles and aunties to attend my party, and a cake was cut and one of the uncles presented me with a fifty-rupee note,which Baba pocketed, as I still was not allowed any pocket money. I remember wondering if that was strictly fair given that it was because of their forgetfulness that I had been deprived of proper presents.

But the really funny part of that ridiculous birthday was the birthday gift I received from my brother, a pair of small black binoculars. Now bro was really attached to the binoculars as he had not yet got the smart green field glasses, (that he was given soon after), still he felt that giving me a gift, and a jolly good one to make up for forgetting my day, was the right thing to do!

So he addressed me gravely, wished me happy returns and then formally and dignifiedly handed me The Binoculars, (much like god handing Moses the 10 commandments for the benefit of mankind), -and I was suitably delighted, awed even, till I discovered --- “Conditions Applied!”

I was allowed to take possession of the binoculars with a stipulation, that once my birthday was technically over, I should return the said pair back to him!
“As you see,” he explained, “By then, It will no longer be your birthday, so there will be no need for a birthday present.”
Finally I was upset by the injustice, yet unable to fault his logic, I only wrinkled my eyebrows and pursed my lips to express my discontent.

Now though, as a useful device to pull his leg with, I find it the greatest birthday gift ever!

I add this last bubble, enough for this installment.
I call it my beautiful angel-inspired moment bubble.
No need for quotes or capital letters,This is a bubble of memories that only my guardian angel would have brought.

I am sitting at the oval white formica dining table for six, on a spindly legged black and white chair: The tasty but simple breakfast made by ma is over, one delightfully soft boiled egg and as many hot slices of toast that your tummy can hold, some with butter and pepper, some with jam, the crusts dipped in egg.

Today is happy because I have not been sternly told to finish the obligatory cup of milk.Ma must have given up for the day exhausted by the stubbornness of her tiny offspring. I probably have happily taken a cup of horlicks and hot water, which I like…and so the world is perfect, and perfectly contained in our sunshiney big drawing room that opens onto a balcony with glass sliding doors…
In our family we believe in keeping windows open and so the glass doors have been slid back and the pale buttery sunshine has crossed over the slim dark wood sofa set to streak the floor in front of the dining table. And in that poem inspiring half light I can see a small sparrow gadding about in greedy search for breadcrumbs…I watch as long as I can, till, delighted when a second sparrow flutters in, I loudly call for my mother.

Ma is just in time from the kitchen to see one sparrow fly by and the other hop out hurriedly through the balcony doors…

Whenever I look back on childhood, this memory works like a charm to dispel any notions that my childhood was sad…

“Hush my baby don’t you complain,” whispers my guardian angel, “don’t you mourn and don’t you feel pain. Look back and see , how happy you could be, a merry glad soul was my wise baby!”


Now I decant the sad stuff.

First I siphon away the closed-door crisis, when I was about 6 years of age.
The whole day their bedroom door stayed closed and muted voices of three adults faded in and out. My brother angrily pressed his ten-year-old ears and understanding to the door. At mid-afternoon the door swung open.

Now - fast action replay. I scurry in; rat like I scurry out, wondering why my ma would wave a slipper in my baba’s face, and why our tall, beautiful dark-skinned home tutoress looked sad.

I can remember my thin unprotected body in a white chemise unlike the other babies of the building who boldly flounced about in beautiful baby frocks. I had many, but that day no one had thought to put one on me.

I can sense my brother’s bottled sorrow. Yet my father is a good a loving man.
So why would anyone least of all my sweet tempered ma brandish a slipper at his sneering face.

I know now, and the day I found out? In an ugly  roundabout manner on my 27th birthday. That story belongs in another world and time.

Back to 7 or 8 years old – and this scene cannot be described without horror.
My mother is still and pale and white as if in a swoon and that grown up man my father is howling.frightened.In tears.

Yet as I hide scared and puzzled in the dusky kitchen corridor and look into my mother’s youngest sister face even I can see something troubling that sweet lady. I sob out for her sympathy, but she does not comfort me. Instead I am shaken by my shoulders, and tersely advised that I am 8 years old and grown up now –to control myself and stop those tears at once.

My aunt’s mild sweet face turned so strict and stern that day, my tears dried up in fright. The hardness on her young face made me mask my bewilderment.
What is the matter with ma? If she leaves us where will she go?Will baba leave too
Where will we go?

Nothing like that happened of course, Ma came back, safe if not sound, and Baba too did not leave us. Never in flesh and not wholly in spirit.
The Bro and I were not abandoned.

The horror lies in my thanklessness, my utter oblivion of the storm...beneath the dull calm.The underbelly of decency snd goodness is ugly.On it are scrawled cold calculations and hidden ulterior motives for staying the course.Not always for principles oftentimes for expediency.I have done the same.Who am I now to judge ? When judgement wss needed the  judges adjourned court.

Memories are like a will we bequeath to ourselves in our childhood, a legacy, part self made, part inherited, and when we are adults we have to live out our lives according to the way the cloth was cut.

And in turn we bequeath a part of ourselves, and our will of memories on the fresh forming minds of our children-
And so we bestow on them our inherited and acquired pain and bliss, our happiness and grief and our undimmable lights hand in hand with some of our unshakeable darknesses.

Bailamos

Let the rhythm take you over bailamos

I am a dancing doll
Rocking against my shadow on the wall to the rhythm
Of bailamos

I am a dainty figurine
I am the most beautiful mannequin
I am the dancing queen
With grace in my blood and bones
Grace in my face my heart my breasts

I make my hands like ocean waves
I prance like a peacock
Sway like a snake
Strut like a swan
And tap my feet I am
A puppet, a pet
A coquette, a flirt, a tease
A seductress of ease
A Helen no less.
A luxurious love goddess
An apsara in the hall of heaven
Fell
To become a geisha for a king
I am mad in my passion to please
A rag doll on a kite string
I can fly you for free
Only if it pleases me
I can bar the door
I can be the regal courtesan
Or more

I am wild with desire
I race across the floor
And leap into arms of
Imagination

I defy folklore
I open my own doors
I project no shame
I protest no pain
I boast my fame
An epicurean evermore.

I pirouette and elongate
I bend and I bow and I nearly almost break

Then I rise in my art
My dance is my spirit and
Heart
I speak to you, you and -
You only you, do not know
This silent secret dance I do.

All rights reserved

(c) Amrita Valan 2014

Lady Di: Endnotes

This is my short contribution for original writing...Written  nine years after the car crash in which the Princess of Wales died. I was quite a fan...
I almost still am with a few reservations and that comes with growing up a bit!

Lady Di:Endnotes

Lady Diana Spencer,  Princess of Wales, will be remembered today, as it is the ninth anniversary of her death .  31st August 1997.

If she could have had a glimpse into just this day – what would have gone through her mind?

She died, as the young mother of two boys, one barely a teenager and the other a child,
Cruelly and unexpectedly torn away by a brutal high speed car chase that ended her life  in a tunnel.

She would, I think, smile in maternal joy and pride at how well they have progressed, each on their way to splendid manhood…without compromising the core of values they share with their mother.

The shy Prince William and the Jolly Prince Harry – are now at the age Diana was when she attained instant global recognition as the future wife of the Prince of Wales.
The sweet shyness of the young kindergarten teacher, the natural poise of a member of the nobility are entwined in the royal heir William. Harry seems to symbolize the fresh faced optimism and humor of the youthful Diana, who “highly recommended married life”, in a media interview.

Leaving aside the ugly truth behind the lies and deceptions of Prince Charles and Camilla Parker Bowles –is the only tribute we can pay to Diana – the Princess of Hearts.
Even though this beautiful heart was broken in its quest for personal love, it never bent to accept what Fate meted out- and earned a more public sort of love from her loyal subjects.

Sometimes the Famous walk unwary and trip over their own fame…If Lady Di had perhaps made one mistake, it was too assiduously to court the media in her later role as social ambassador and crusader, which she had desperately shunned in the first flush of her royal romance.

Had the lady known what her final fate would be when she enlisted the media in a bid to draw royal attention and concern to her personal predicament –perhaps she would have chosen to stay true to the innate reticence and reserve of the shy young schoolteacher
That she was – and then maybe we would have seen her live to a ripe old age...

I am certain had this lady lived, she would have earned the respect she so craved from the royal family and the rest of the world not as a mere royal figurehead or as a fashionista,
but as an ambassador into the heart of human misery, carving out a path for a personal approach and involvement to social activism.

This lovely blushing bride turned disillusioned divorcee would have ultimately matured into a powerhouse of compassion and charity. Queen she never would have become perhaps, but in her day Queen Mother to a proud King William, maybe. Since there was and is ground to believe that Prince Charles would be passed over in favor of Prince William for the throne of Britain.

Now we will never know – For Diana the beautiful, compassionate, phenomenal woman is lost to us forever, left behind in the chaotic crush of metal and flesh in a dark tunnel in a foreign land…and with time the tunnel of horror slowly recedes in our memories, leaving behind an age, a race, a time that made the unique Lady Diana .

Footnote:
(Of course Prince Charles
couldn't resist the throne and with  bowler hatted Camilla parked right next to him!
The age of abdication and nobility is truly over.
Will and Harry will follow suit too I guess.
This was an effusion of my innocent  ardor  for a beautiful lady in the days when I was comfortable with monarchy! )

All rights reserved
(c) Amrita Valan 2014

Mind Chronicles

Chronicle Mind

Soon, too soon, ever sooner and yet, the day never comes.
I wish to fly out of reach, out of sight and out of time.
I pray for wings of steel to beat my way across oceans and continents, stopping for none, pausing as I please, to drink my fill, and be gone.
I want to fly right out of the curve of known space and countable time…

This should be my dream journey, where I gravitate to mind boggling heights and spaces that gravity cannot reach…my orbit could be twelve thousand light years long, but it
passes by in the second that it takes me to sigh.

I want to see strange people who call themselves gods and fishes that look like people and people that walk on water and fly in the sky…I want to hear fishes speak and
Snails serenade and school going dogs solve differential equations…

I want flowers to haunt with their scent, incandescent gold moonlight to fall cool and watery and freeze on my arms and shoulders in a shower of silver.

I want the sky blue-brown today and bright yellow dotted with gold sparkles tomorrow - and regal gray with silver flecks the day after…and it should bend into my fingertips and eyelids like the caress of eyelashes or the kiss of the wings of a butterfly…

Here in this land, red stars should bake to purple as the lengthy day progresses to night and dawn should break the star into a shower of icy splinters of blue and pink, which melt and paint the sky in fresh new hues, as the sunshine trickles through the fragments like warm syrup through my fingers.

The food should be served on the roadside like an offering to the gods under the Bodhisattiva tree, refreshing the air with an aroma of devotion like cool sandalwood.
Joyous refulgent love should color the ingredients so that if you look at it you are in heaven…and if you just place it upon your tongue your thirst quenched, and if you swallow a grain you are fulfilled. Food that does not weigh us down, or make us stodgy.
but enriches and enlightens our soul.

This soul food is simple yet like no other, new mown hay which tastes of nectar and fresh dew, green leaves which yield honey and milk in its sap, bark and shoots with the aroma of mint and vanilla, chocolate and cream and saffron.

In this land the children bake birthday cakes by the warmth of the purple night star. They gather honey and bulbs and buds of fresh flowers, generously sprinkle corn and judiciously powder a few pearls into the bowl, then add new mown grass, velvety mushrooms and delicious nuts, mix the dough in cider, tangerine and lime, and finally add the goodness of ice blue spring water.
By midday, the cake is completely baked by the heat of the red red daystar.

The children bake their own birthday cakes to celebrate the season of the year they were born in and not just their arrival. So if the children were born after nightfall, the first bite of the cake makes them see the twinkle of stars and hear the chime of the spheres, while silver moon dust showers them like confetti, …for those born after dawn, the deep gong of golden bells resound over the faint music of the chimes, and a rainbow appears with a pot of gold, at one end.

The second slice tastes of the fruits in season when the children were born -nectarines, oranges, plums and hazels according to the season of birth.
.
And to indicate if the child was born of summer or winter, Autumn or spring, the third slice vary from a fiery chocolate rum for summer, to a icy vanilla for winter, to fresh and pungent minted violet for spring babies and savory pop corn raisins and roast apple for autumn children.

And just for fun, for every slice consumed after that all the tastes of all the seasons
intermingle and rotate…

As for the attire of this strange far out land that I shall one day visit…
Dresses soft as muslin or silk, crisp as georgette and crepe, clingy as wool and nylon, airy as chiffon, flowing as viscose and vinyl are worn and all the qualities of all the fabric intermingle and exchange properties, and every one’s attire is imbued with soft yet bright metallic hues and tinted with a touch of translucence...

As for colors, imagine a dress that appears tinted like café au lait, changes to a more subdued beige and deepens and blushes like wine…or a pale chartreuse to amorous aquamarine to a lissome lime and lemony green to the deep devoted emerald…. or a radiant royal blue to peacock’s coquettish glittering hues to the sable blue black of midnight…all the shades appear in quick succession and all at once, soft mossy green and azure blue, luminous lilac and tiger yellow, vibrant violet and faultless sable black, dazzling sheer white to a translucent pearly foamy waterfall.

Such a dress that inspires poetry and passion and makes the bared skin proud to be revealed from under one’s sleeves the only glowing accessory. A dress that floats like a Chinese paper lantern in the breeze and melts like mud at one’s pink shell like feet, ruffles like a child’s lacy bib at the quaint collar and falls like a flawless Grecian robe draped on a sheet of marble…a dress that raises flesh from the bone and make the wearer ethereal yet vivacious and spontaneous..


But most of all my wishes, I wish that when they play music in this land, Love becomes manifest.

I mean it.

No airy outline of a muse, no breath or spirit or idea of love.
Love - clear and radiant and blinding in its highest avatar, love in its purest moment of truth, love in its energetic chain of binding relationships and its affectionate link of memories transmitted through the generations.

Love, which began its journey, in a tale of romance between the wealthy and aristocratic great great great grandfather and the soft and delicately beautiful fisherwoman in a poor
fishing village, where there were no roads and peopled ferried on dinghies to do their daily chores…

The soft wonder of that ancient past love that still lingers on and leaves a trace of its blessing, , in the lives of the crafty silk merchant and his bored anorexic ivory skinned “model-wife”…four generations later.

A listless love that still carries underneath it, a strange current, the seeds of strength of the old true blood bonds formed generations earlier.

And yet this luxurious offspring of the Original Love fails to match in its designer marble palace reproduction, the ecstasy achieved in a stolen moment in a hut, a century ago.

A love that will be passed on as inheritance to the gentle bulge in the belly of the exotic cabaret dancer the unfaithful merchant courts as a pastime – away from his apathetic wife, -- the same love which eluded his wife but lives on in a pale faced son that this anemic marriage long back resulted in, in the moonlit romance of the first year of magical love.


Whenever music is played, the walls of time should ignite and the past should again appear to light the way for the present…the refined beauty combined with vigor of the fisherwoman who was worshipped by the fiery aristocrat, whose ardor was only a matchstick to the passion of the fisherwoman should resurrect and replay in the music.

The grand old lady once again waltzes, in secret, not with the great great great grandfather, but with his distant forebear, the pale timid child of ten, and whispers to him
that everything that begins in love will have the same ending in love, someday…

And that grand fiery old man gives the lifeless ivory beauty in her sunroom where the suns rays do not reach, a meaning to live, love for a son who will otherwise wither and fade like an uncared plant.

In this land where the gods walk upon the earth in humility, and the air sings hosannas
not to the creator, but to the beautiful creation, as the highest most supreme tribute and allegiance that can be paid to the creator, there I wish to spend a while. Perhaps the whole of my life or perhaps, a few last seconds before I die….

There I dream, I shall watch the kites from the past outrace kites from the future in the timeless skies, where past and present effortlessly unite, and the hawk gliding could well be surveying the ancient swamp of dinosaurs, or be a twenty third century avian looking down at a space station of the future…

I do not know, but I will when I too climb the same ecstatic heights…

All rights reserved

(c) Amrita Valan 2014

Rather Not

Love me
Don’t be so quick to hate me 
bait me entrap me catch me
Spurn not
Fail not
O please do not
Run
I cannot
Bear to be
Left so

all alone.

If you do
Then I’m  an empty null

Rather be dead
Rather not
Live
If I am leftn
By you  again.

All rights reserved

(c) Amrita Valan 2014

Before Sunset

Before Sunset

At mid afternoon the pompous old guard sits
Reading a paper in a shady spot
The green fields are dotted with at least 30 chewing cows
Red, dappled, white and a sturdy jet.

Before four o clock this world seems deserted
To a housewife who dreams away the day
A whole world of women and men are gone
To work in air-conditioned suites of gleaming chrome
A world to which she had once belonged.

The daily laborers and the maidservants
Whose day started
At the crack of dawn
Busily sleep away their afternoons
The precious warmth lulls their tired bones.

My steadfast mates are the gardeners
With shears and scissors they
Click and clack away
At grass and shrubs and neatly bordered hedges
So that the evening walks are more pleasant for the rich.

Between four and five my world begins to stir.
As schoolchildren return in clattering buses
Armed with sunshades the maid brigade returns
A mother comes out to pick up her little girl
A pair of ladies exit by the gate
For a shopping trip probably planned on phone.

Still hours to go and a whole evening to kill with tea
Till dinner time preparation busies me
But that is between five and six,
Before the sun sets
Lies an eternity.

The still air resonates with the sound of the water pump
Somewhere, an air conditioner hums, somewhere a
Car starts with a groan and screech, then leaves with a
Mighty triumphant roar.

Across the bend of my road the noise recedes
Now like a silent photo reel I watch the car
Take the bend and follow the cut across the fields
Far across parallel to my balcony
Now the car glides on buttered wheels through a swath of grass
A gleaming box of steel amidst the green
As it reaches the curve to the highway
It glitters and goes out of vision’s range.


Now finally at half past five
Laughing children chase each other and
The softer smile of nature turns the earth
Into a dreamscape canvas of itself.

Before sunset the squirrel gathers nuts
The cows have done their grazing for the day
The young man tears at the sugarcane with his teeth
The barking dog barks itself hoarse
As it warns us nightfall will be soon.

This is the picture I see
A half an hour before the sun sets
Across my land…
This is the sight I will see more or less
Each day
Till the night my barking night dog comes.

All rights reserved

(c) Amrita Valan 2014

Dirty Aesthetic Pigs:version 2

The dirty aesthetic pigs have turned the gleaming tiled, American style open kitchen chummery, into a “slummery.” Or not to be nasty – a “slumbery.”

Piles of bedding, bed sheets, bedcovers and pillows denuded of their cases lie on the 2
otherwise decent single beds. The solitary chair in the room has several curtains covered by another bedspread on it. Up on top of the wardrobe are scores more curtains. In fact, curtains are everywhere excepting on the doors and windows.

One favored window has been partially draped with a white tasseled tablecloth.

The study table has a name, “Khushi,” or Joy. I know this is the name of the owner’s
daughter. A cute child, who I remember as barely reaching the height of our dining table when I last saw her, but who indomitably, still stretched her hand strenuously for cucumber slices from the tabletop. In fact cucumber and cashew nuts was mostly all she ate for lunch that day.

Khushi / Joy has a brother, named “Nirman” or Construction, who is now about 8, while she I think is about 3. Construction with joy makes a sweet pair, with a wonderful mother and father…(whose names are a little more difficult to play with, or I would.)

Nirman used to be called his father, sourabh’s latest “laptop,” when he was born, by Upal and Probir. I used to be a part of Aesthetic Technologies back then, though never a dirty pig, and I remember he was born on 14 April 1998, the same year Poonam’s little girl, “Vinny,” was born.

And that was also the year when Upal married Gargi, (an impressive figure with lovely eyes.) That was on 3rd February 1998, coincidentally my first day of work at Aesthetic.
I was a Production Executive hopeful of graduating to programming but my husband-to-be who was the head programmer told me politely that I was “limited as a programmer.”

I had big plans and mortified that I was at best good for copying, cutting and pasting for
Programmers and designers, I did not tarry but I fled…though now I wish sometimes
I had not left, as slow though I was I could steadily have learnt to make myself useful;
Sourabh is that kind of a boss, with a space for everyone.

Though here the husband, who I call The ant, begs to differ. He thinks that while Aesthetic does have tolerance and space for people like me, unpredictable daydreamers,
People who really have an edge, and can be smart, original go-getters are the only ones who succeed in its environs.

Well past history, and rehashed to death many times, so let me move on.

It is far pleasanter to stick with the chummery. I am fairly sure someone has thrown up in the bedroom in the honor of my arrival, the room reeks and so does the bathroom. Then there is that big damp patch on the small mat by the bed.

I venture to the main room, there is a big dining table but it has a waxy unclean look. The kitchen’s clean, but once again the 2 kitchen rags draped over the gas oven are like small sized curtains. The floors are a shiny white.

I have not yet ventured to the third room. Curious though. Have peeked inside. It is empty and unfurnished, filled with strange gadgets, and broken machine parts, and dim and shadowy.
And here at this point I mark my departure from real life and my flight into fantasy.
“What if the 3rd room is a portal to an alternate universe, a doorway to a different dimension, where pink bubblegum blossoms on treetops, apples and Kangaroos
are mass-produced in factories, and fishes marry birds and rule over water and sky.
Frogs rule over the land and remain forever upset at the birds, (mistresses of the skies), for intermarrying with fishes.

“Look at me, what was wrong with me as your suitor, you could have helped me rule over water, sky and land – but no, you had to go and marry with a little fish…Don’t tell me you never heard the adage, a fish and a bird can marry, but where will they build their nest?

Now, you and I, we could have booked a nice condo on land, a penthouse suite from which you could fly off on your heavenly missions, while I took to the water tanks and the downward slide by pipes to the nearest water body, lake, river or sea. And every now and then we could have touched base in our “castle in the air” condominium.

So the frog croaked cattily.

Meanwhile what was the cat doing?
Well, what they always do, in any given dimension.
“Miaow, Miaow, Miaow, - Milk is wow, - I want some now, - but miaow, miaow, How?”

“Miaow” is actually an attempt to say “Ciaow” which is a cat word for “cow>”

And the Purr –Prrrrr…actually.
Purring is how they describe their appreciation of fish products. So when they come up and purr against humans, all they mean is – “Thanks frrrr the fish I stole today, Yourrrr kitchen window was open, The fish was frrrreshh—It’s an open and shut case!”

So when you bend down to pat kitty, give her a smack instead.

On our way to Aesthetic, in its latest incarnation, (No disrespect intended, but like the Durga Puja pandal, the Aesthetic is dismantled every year and relocated to a newer more impressive location with great fanfare), a small wiry dog crossed our path. As it was a canine crossover and not a feline one I did not beg the ant to stop.

The dog gave us a filthy sideways look, as if to say, “ I know, I know, I don’t pull any weight and no heavy superstition has been hitched to my tail. I know, bow, wow, woe…
I don’t cut any ice, find no fear in your eyes, I know I cannot scare the pants of an ant and his wife! – Tcchah! What can I say? This is a dog’s life!”

Mr. And Mrs. Ant, oblivious speeded away, and the dog was, well doggone.

The ant revved up even more, which scared me into anti-ant screeches- which made moi ant positively zoom…moral of the story in mangled French, - “ Don’t mess with your ant, Ma tante!”

An anthem for my ant:

An ant is from antiquity
No antidote is there
For ant bite
And no tenzing has ever
Planted a flag
On an anthill.

Anteaters are
Confused by their antics
And serve them right.
I suppose once an intrepid ant had
Eloped
With a darling deer
And henceforth their children were known as
Antelopes

Antimony is a strong poison, and Antennae are what we need to know what
These devilish ants are up to.

…An ant coveted the arctic, so he founded Antarctica as the arctic region was already taken.

Ever seen an ant caught in a time warp?
Visit Antwerp,
An ant never turns his back on you,
Hence the term, “anterior,”
As opposed to posterior.

Here ends my anthem, and no this does not mean
An ant letting down the hemline of his skirt…
My dictionary definition of “Anthem”-“ant them – or those of us who live with
Ants, become ants like them….

All rights reserved
(c) Amrita Valan 2014

An Episode at Fortune City

New House Forune City - An Episode

After the initial support of the “Tribe,” (my nickname for the family), in coming and dumping all of my earthly possessions in a designated and much awaited square feet of space in Fortune City, - After the hurly burly of placing my few well traveled pieces of furniture in the room each was best suited to, -after the dreaded descent of the 17 ugly packing boxes, - (originally egg cartons from the local market at Rs.4.00 apiece.) – on the
least usable patch of floor - and finally after the careful stowing and stashing of the valued boxes containing my LG music system and speakers, the tribe settled down for a hasty mheal, (Which Baba, the headman of the tribe procured from somewhere), - and then equally hastily, they departed.

Normally tribal support in such moments of family crises and emergencies, extends well above the initial welcome week of much needed free labor and moral support, to the point where the tribe has to be tactfully extradited before their well meaning maneuvers,
manipulations and criticism irritates this tiniest and junior most tribe member into seeking instant asylum elsewhere.


But, The 17th of August, which was the day I moved, was a special day. It was the last auspicious day of the month, on which any self respecting Bengali could safely move in or out, before the Dreadful Bengali month of “Bhadro” started, prohibiting all permanent moves from one’s home and hearth, as that, according to Hindu belief, would be the very final move that such a crazy Bengali would ever make.

As no Bengali, however intrepid, would risk being erased off the face of the earth, ergo none therefore would risk staying under any roof but his own during the first and final day of this month, nor initiate a major move during any day of the dreaded Bhadro.

So off went my eager-beaver family.

The headman of course hung around till the last possible moment, delaying departure till almost 8 p.m., while he gruffly supervised the reassembling of my unwilling and non-cooperating box bed.

The husband, who I fondly call The Ant, short for Anto, which is short for Anthony, (Which actually is super short for his given name: James William Anthony John Valan),
Grumbled at the tiny but too meticulous carpenter who was now refitting my box bed in a frenzy of finesse, hopping from side to side, tapping at this, banging at that and finally after tapping his own perplexed head, hammering with fury.

Now, the Ant has another flat to call his own, (and therefore according to us Hindus, to consider as the legitimate roof over his head), so though he as a Roman catholic is free and unencumbered of such worrying beliefs, I requested him to pack up his ruffled antennae and leave as well. This he did after some final roars and rumbles at the
Pint sized carpenter, who had now resorted to jumping up and down on my bed to make the parts fit.

Finally, it was time for a one on one, my date with solitary thankless me, clutching on to the last luscious box of locally obtained chili chicken in one grubby hand and bidding my trusty tribe my tired ungrateful and grumpy adieus, with the other equally dirty paw.

Next it was time for me to survey the immediate assault to my extremely nitpicking sense of hygiene and cleanliness. This was vast, immense, unbearable and unimaginable.
The visual kill was stupendous, and if looks could kill, the appearance of flat E-06,
On arrival day, should have borne me away to a higher (or lower) plane, instantly,
month of bhadro or not. I survived and so set to work.

Before that however, let me briefly encapsulate the charming front my flat presented:
Damp drab brown packing boxes, which had got wet in the rain, sat soggy and smashed on the dusty crusty tiles. Every sweet 17 of them looked like Pandora’s box of troubles.
The always ugly green plaid sofa cushions clumped mushily on the living room sofa were also wet—and they glared their dumpy grumpy green envy at a pile of musty, moldering mattresses in the opposite corner…And so it went in the looks department. I realized that clean up would be one long painful and excruciating housewarming treat.

After that Eureka moment, the next 45 minutes were spent studiously sweeping every
single inch of every single tile of the coveted square footage, and clearing the cobwebs gaily festooning the walls and windows, scrupulously, not once but twice!

Mercifully, I had the common sense, to leave it at that for the day and call it a night! After a mad hunt for matching attire from 17 ill packed and unlabelled boxes, I ended
up emerging from a bath, gloriously clean and refreshed, but draped in a pale blue Terri cotton shirt, teamed with a beige cotton Dupatta, and with my legs encased in a ballooning red chiffon salwar. Visually I was now giving the drab whitewashed flat a splash of color!

The next hilarious event for my harlequin self was of course the planned dinner for one.
I decided on the bed which was a mistake as bang opposite and directly facing my massive king size bed, in the confined space remaining was cramped my Belgian float glass mirrored wardrobe. I love this mirror and keep it particularly clean, so now I had the dubious treat of watching myself solemnly pop piece after piece of chili chicken into my mouth, chewing steadily, looking absurdly serious with wet black hair plastered around a pale bone tired face and of course my harlequin outfit...
This double whammy treat of eating while watching myself eat as absorbedly as if I were watching The World Cup or a Hollywood blockbuster movie on a LCD television set during dinner was probably what kept the tears of loneliness at bay, for which at least, I am now thankful.
After my strange “T.V” dinner, I slept like a baby that very first night.

This ends my first episode in my new house, at Fortune City.
Next, I shall describe the gradual day by day genesis of a home of sorts from a house, and the energetic exodus of the ants, frogs and insects of Fortune City from my home, barring one small baby frog that I found useful as an efficient insect catcher!
Too noteworthy however to leave out, is this special anecdote dedicated to my Japanese Kamikaze attack on a spider the size of my palm!

This same spider ventured in at 11 p.m of my second night, by which time I had made myself comfortable on a chatai or jute mattress on the floor of the drawing room. Cable T.V having been installed, I was snug as a bug under a sleeping bag (and not a rug), watching a melodramatic Hindi serial when I happened to glance across at the wall.

And saw the bile freezing sight of 8 black furry crinkly tentacles encased in an equally black unevenly tumescent sphere scurrying across the wall. I shuddered from my spine to my toes. I wet my lips, I swallowed and bravely turned back to the T.V, but I could neither forgive not forget the atrocity of sharing my space with this ugly and unwanted tenant.

Being a peaceful sort I generally kick away roaches and insects and chase away smaller bugs and generally ignore the smaller harmless variety of eight legged beasts. But not this
Time!

Spiders were not that useful anyway, and this kind did not even build decent crumbly webs that could be easily brushed away. I knew my foe and that its nest was an ugly sticky white stuff that was near impossible to eradicate.

And what if, horror of horrors, I woke up in the dark and felt uneasy about the spider crawling on my bed, switched on a light – and found that it was indeed less than a foot away, from climbing my foot?

It was time for lethal action and the need of the hour was to morph into Terminator without qualms. I gritted my entire set of mental teeth, and grimly picked up a broomstick and a boot.

It was over in 30 seconds. First with the broomstick I chased the spider down from the high walls to ground level. And then, up went the boot and down, like the piston of a hydraulic pump. The spider was totaled in about 10 more seconds.
I was the cruel and vindictive Timor Lane, victorious and utterly ruthlessly without regrets.

To me the huge garden spider is like a psychological terrorist. In a way I was a tiny part of the global war against terror, even though for all I knew the poor spider probably would have wisely stayed far way from me, as terrified of me as I was of it.

Or not. One cannot live in suspenseful anticipation and that is the terrorists’ calling card, their USP and the reason we are all terrified. Like Harry Potter all wise folks fear only fear itself.

The point is, by thus using my faculty of reasoning and my flair for logic and justice, I not only exhibited and flexed the genotypic muscles of an ancestry of barristers, district judges and land revenue collectors of Bengal, but I also comforted my slight twinge of conscience regarding the dead spider.

Thoughts of venomous saliva and poisonous spider bites also helped!
Simultaneously, I reminded myself that the most successful terrorist is the psycho terrorist! The spider, like Iraq may not have been aware that it was stockpiling psychically explosive ammunition, which would cause its downfall much like Saddam’s.
This is my deposition of the spider incident.

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(c) Amrita Valan 2014

Beslan Cemetery

Beslan Cemetery

When a Grandmother has to visit her Granddaughter’s grave

The picture at the Beslan cemetery, printed in today’s newspaper dated September 1st, 2006, made me file the moment away as a remembrance moment.

The first thing that draws is the captivating face of the young child, her bright eyed confidence, dewy and fresh as the cute flower tucked behind her ear.

She is formally posing, and this photographed portrait has been engraved or reproduced on the gravestone of the dead child. The caption states “Too Young to Die.”

It is hard to imagine that this lively faced lovely girl is now a rapidly decomposing putrid form under the cold dark earth the gravestone marks.

Yet the picture of the grieving grandmother whose withered hand wistfully strokes the gravestone, is no poised portrait. She is a real woman, caught in a flesh and blood moment of acute despair, unable to bear the agonizing grief and guilt of surviving while her beloved granddaughter did not.

There in that brief moment, old age and youth are juxtaposed and eerily cross over into each other’s domain.

The young girl now smiles the mocking age-old smile of Cynical Death –harsh, unforgiving, while the fresh raw grief softens the frail old lady’s age lined face
Into that of an unwary baby, a helpless confused infant lost in the grim dark woods of war and hate.

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(c) Amrita Valan 2014

Utsa - The Condoville

UTSA - The Condoville

Giant metallic birds glide across the misty haze of Time,
Piercing the cloudy canopy of never ending skies.
The green grass grows quiet and greener still in the final soft
Subdued farewell to daylight.
The thin blue snaking roads turn several scales deeper in hue.
In the mid-range of my vision lies a heap of still silver water
Motionless as a field of salt.

And farthest away under the fathomless sky the dark green woods
Beckon to us city beings.
Guardian of a differing world.

As a few doll like figures on cycle pass by –I can almost see the
Untouched village and rural marketplace
In my mind’s eye.

I can sense quiet evenings - grannies mothers and young wives
As they sing their sons to sleep, and oil and braid their daughters’ hair,
And clear up the ashes from the ovens and the leaves from the yards.

And bear casual witness
To the vast range and motion of the skies
The stars, the clouds the moon and the wind - nonchalantly
Cradled in nature…
And casually continue with their small talk –

I keep still and pray the beauty of this evening may remain
Frozen in the fiber of my soul
For endless replays...

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(c) Amrita Valan 2014

One Cold Dark Afternoon. ...

Wednesday is original writing day. Thought I will submit a short piece written 7-8 years back....

One Cold Dark Afternoon. ...

I am well fed and well onto my way to feeling sleepy.

Sitting in The Ant's(my husband Anto), countryside office blogging on one of his computers I am content if not supremely happy.

Wafting in through the window is the sound of soft incessant rainfall and a ferociously cold breeze married to a plaintive folk song --"O Friend- take me in and find me a place if not in your heart, at your feet" the singer wails and croons repeatedly, into the cold darkness...

My eyes fill with tears, the sensuous simplicity of his longing seduces me with the wealth of unsatiated love.

Love is such a well of deep dark desires till you draw it up into sunlight's crystal clarity.

I am reminded of Juliet's simple vow to Romeo, "..all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay and follow thee lord to the ends of the earth/world.."
True love is that selfless. That devoted humbled and accepting.No questions asked. With no room for ego or jealousy.  And without those two worthies betrayal or petty  misunderstanding cannot exist.
World and Wealth and comfort forsaken for they were less comforting than the adored presence.

Touched by this love one is purified as if by holy sacrament or a  baptism by sacred fire. The truest highest worth is gleaned out of the soul and the rest remains inconsequential.

True love cannot be unrequited because it does not depend on  response  in order to love.It is powered by its own dynamo. The answers are to be found in the echoes of one's own heart.

And so the brave baul (folk singer), sings  heart meltingly, in joyous triumphant grief "if not in thy heart, Lord/(love), at thy feet at least. ."

And so a gentle indomitable Mira Bai could live on to love an unresponsive silent Lord Krishna. In her mind and heart she was already one with him.
And in ancient India too hindu women who could not accept as  husband any other man except the object of their unreturned affections, would put vermilion on their foreheads in open declaration.  Symbolizing their wilful permanent union with the man they had selected as husband. Inside their hearts and not outside.
This was their decision to love without expecting love's return. To seek another in all fairness would've been impossible.
Besotted soaking in humbled love for a person and bereft of pride ...what a journey to self discovery!
Fatal attraction with its balls and chains love syndrome it was not.

My mind felt curiously happy and aeons lighter.For a moment I could imagine an almost similar surrender a glow in my heart a feeling of surveying from mountain tops and  skies the love of my life. The destined man it was my  fated mission to love protect and yes, without reservations, to worship.

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(c) Amrita Valan 2014

Meaning over Action : Ruminations at AG-18..

This is an attempt to resurface, - this time with a valid id_card.

My intent is not to state non committal things about a person who is moody and indecisive, but to enliven cold rainy evenings such as this, the evening that I decided to start my e-journal.

I survive by writing because I exist in my thoughts. Actions are inconclusive because they do not state anything about the person. Its more about the event, the circumstances, the time.

For example, I can interpret my move away from my own city to far away Delhi, as liberating, a bid for freedom, a practical necessity.

Someone ill disposed to me would call the same move hot headed, escapist and rebellious.

Well, I do not really know because I judge not by action but by intention, not by what happens in the cold substance of the "real" world, but by what happens in the heart and in the head. That journey is infinitely more interesting, complex and wild than the Tame ride by The Rajdhani Express to the Indian capital.

I found deep respect for the friend who first articulated this trend of thought and made me awaken from the slumberous inertia of mindless methodical action.. She asked me not to take this life too seriously when I was disparaging myself to her for enjoying the "escapist" fiction of Harry Potter and neverland.. She gently asked me to regard this life as an illusion, blink your eyes and it is over, Like a beautiful dream...

We were speaking over the telephone so she could not have seen my stunned face. My jaw dropped, ungracefully I might add !

What was I even doing, pondering the intricacies of a dream? Do we enjoy the wild ups and downs of the roller coaster ride or do we mentally calculate the rate of our acceleration or how many G-forces we are experiencing?

We kill the moment when we analyze the action. We resurrect the act when we analyze the meaning of the act.

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(c) Amrita Valan 2014