Penning Some Thoughts…

a couple of days back, a friend of mine asked me for my thoughts on letter writing – snail mail, as we call it now. while emailing her my responses (i know – ironies of life), i was reminded of the letters i had written and received – it all feels so long ago. email, facebook and mobile phones have become the de rigeur modes of communication, so much so that the only notes i write to other people are little post-its to be stuck on the fridge, table or laptop screens.

long, hand-written letters have a charm of their own – i am reminded of the carpenter’s song “please mr.postman” even as i type this! 🙂 opening up the envelope and smoothing the sheets, eagerly waiting to find out just what the other person had to say is part joy in itself. of course, not everyone has good penmanship, but the very fact that they could fill an A4 sheet (twice over, if they wrote in the back as well) made it clear that they had something to say, that is worth a read.

my grandmother was one of the most meticulous letter-writers in the family. she had a fantastic memory when it came to birthdays and families – of her children, grand children, her sibling and her children, my grandfather’s siblings and their children, and so on. and some days before the occassion, she would take out a postcard or blue inland letter from her stock, and write a long letter that began by wishing the person in question, then giving an update on how things were on her end, asking about life on the other end, and rounding off with wishes and blessings. her handwriting was extremely small and she had the habit of writing her lines very close to each other to maximise space, so it made it a bit hard to understand some words. and yet, just the sight of her letter would fill us with happiness, and we could hardly wait to open and read it. 🙂

another person who wrote letters on a regular basis was my dad. a marine engineer, he was often away for months together, and could only keep in touch through the phone (when he reached a port) or letters. his letters would reach us a few weeks after being posted, as we could make out from the date. they were enclosed in envelopes with red and blue edges, with the words “By Air Mail – Par Avion” printed in a corner, each one bearing stamps from different corners of the world. a budding philatelist might have considered these letters a veritable treasure, but rather unfortunately, i didn’t have stamp-collecting tendencies. the sheets were light, with thin lines and were made specifically for writing letters. my dad’s handwriting was – is – beautifully rounded and spaced out, and his letters looked like they had been printed. we would read about the places he had visited, the things he had seen, and how he wished we were there with him to see it too. somehow, reading those words made the feelings come alive – almost as if he was right there talking to us. sometimes, he would enclose photos as well. receiving these letters was like getting a christmas stocking – you never knew what surprises lay within! 🙂

the other letters i have received have been from friends, often tucked inside birthday or diwali cards. these were shorter, and more like notes than letters per se, but they still had their own charm. the creative types would often add stickers or draw little patterns on the margins, making it cheery and personal. i would collect and keep these cards and letters as mementos, but at some point – probably during a routine spring cleaning exercise – many were lost.

then along came the email. at first, it seemed like the answer to all our communication woes – letters would no longer get lost, we would never have to struggle to read bad handwriting (mine included), and with the colourful fonts and templates, writing an interesting letter seemed a cinch. except that the habit of writing slowly dwindled away. dashing off a “how r u? i m gd. ttyl!” was easier than typing out a full-length account. the other thing that made writing less and less prominent was the fact that we could always catch up on the phone.

i am not one to deride the marvels of technology – but now that i think about it, they have obliterated a culture that thrived on the beauty of words. and just the way i swear by two thick books in my bag as opposed to an iPad with 200 e-books, i would say that the joy of receiving a letter is unmatched by short-lived thrill of a new email in the inbox. and it’s not just me – do you see anyone writing songs about receiving an email?

Short Story: Fated

even though it was evening, he started to sweat within minutes of emerging from the air-conditioned office. as sweat trickled down his neck, he shifted his laptop from right to left hand, rubbed his neck against the shirt collar and looked around. rush hour meant that he wouldn’t get an auto easily, let alone one that would charge him a reasonable price. finally, a three-wheeled yellow-and-black contraption stopped, and he got in, not bothering to negotiate the fare.

as the auto driver  tried to weave his way through mere inches afforded between a lorry and car, he sat back, letting his shoulders slouch. the deal had come through – he had been told of his promotion before leaving the office (the ceremonies would come later). in an unexpected twist, he would also be assigned to the research wing – something he had long desired. at 40-plus, success had come a bit later than for some others, but it tasted sweet.

he had called his wife – she was away for a week – and they had made plans to celebrate “with your favourite dishes and ice cream”. then, he had called his sister and told her he was coming over for dinner. he hadn’t mentioned the promotion – a surprise was, after all, much better.

the traffic cleared, and the auto began to zoom ahead, swerving sharply to avoid a motorcyclist.

he knocked on the door and waited. akka (*older sister in tamil) needed a full 5 minutes or more to reach the door – age and arthritis had robbed her knees of their versatility. when she opened the door, he smiled.

as he put his shoes away, she said, “i have some dosa batter ready…you must be so tired…shall i make you some coffee as well?” the same questions, every time. akka‘s expressions of love were rarely different.

he nodded his assent, and went to the toilet. a newly unwrapped bar of soap was placed next to the wash-basin. the same green soap he had been using since he was a boy, just like the chequered cotton towel that was hung on the peg. the mirror with little embedded floral motifs had some brown spots at the edges, and a hairline crack along the center.

he splashed some water on his face, and paused, allowing the little drops to dribble down his chin before reaching for the towel. as he straightened up, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. the memory of an evening stirred within – one when he had splashed water on his face, over and over, to lessen the redness of his eyes and wash away the tear streaks on his cheeks.

****

she picked up the flat pan and wiped it with a towel before putting it on the lit stove. her brother would be at the table soon. it had been about two weeks since his last visit. with her son living in the USA and her husband no more, her brother and sister-in-law were her closest kin. it mattered when they didn’t see each other for more than a couple of days.

she poured two ladle-fulls of dosa batter on the pan, then used the ladle’s curved underside to tease the batter into a neat circle. as the edges of the dosa sizzled from the added drops of oil, she peeped out into the dining room – the table was empty. time enough to make coffee. she adjusted the edge of her sari over her shoulder and began to heat some milk.

he walked into the kitchen – a departure from his habit of sitting at the table and clearing his throat to announce that he was ready to eat. she turned around in surprise.

“the project went well akka. i am going to be promoted! and guess what – i am moving into the research division!” as tears stung her eyelids, she touched his cheek lightly, then picked up the sugar tin to tip a spoonful into his mouth – a customary way of celebrating good news. his eyes were moist too, and probably to hide it, he muttered something and went to sit at the table. she walked up to the door of the kitchen and said, “ask the watchman to get some sweets from the corner shop – this is such good news.”

he pulled out some notes from his wallet and passed it to the watchman with the said instructions. as he walked back, his mind wandered again to the memory that had awakened a few minutes earlier.

he was returning home from college, with the letters of recommendation. his teachers were glad to help, adding that if anyone deserved it, it was him. apart from being one of the top students in the batch, he had a love for research which had been noticed by the chancellor. he was asked to apply for a prestigious MSc program and accompanying scholarship. if things went well, he would do his PhD or join a big pharmaceutical company as a research associate.

it would have been an ideal career, but the scholarship afforded a minimal stipend. also, starting out in research would mean a meagre salary for the first 5 years or so. maybe his sister could help support the family for a couple of years. he could take up additional jobs, and marry later…years down the road, it would all be worth it…

he told her about it that night, after posting his application. he had expected her lack of enthusiasm, but her frown was too deeply etched. “what if it doesn’t come through?” she had asked quietly. “what will you do?” he was annoyed at the question. “if it doesn’t come, then i will apply for a job. but until the 15th – by when the letter should arrive – don’t ask such stupid questions.” he had snapped.

he had tried to read a book, but his anger did not subside – worse, it morphed into anxiety. what if her words were a premonition? 

****

he had gone home an hour back, after an early dinner and a conversation via Skype with her son.

she sat on the edge of her bed and picked up the clock to perform the nightly routine of setting the alarm. it was 17 October – a coincidence. she remembered the same day, many years back.

the postman had left after handing over a bulky envelope. it was addressed to her brother, and bore the university’s seal. she knew he wouldn’t like it, but she opened the letter and read it. he had been awarded the scholarship.

she knew she should feel happy and proud, but she felt something very different – a sense of fear. this would mean more years of working in an office she didn’t like. it might mean that she would have to put off marrying, as no one wanted a wife who spent her salary on a sibling. since their parents’ death three years back, she had been carrying the weight of the family. she wanted him to stop depending on her.

the questions simmered…if he didn’t earn any money, how would they afford her wedding? and for how much longer would they continue this hand-to-mouth existence? 

she looked down at the letter. in a moment she would regret for years to come, she burnt it by the flame of the gas stove and flushed the ashes down the kitchen sink. while he waited anxiously every evening for the postman and turned away disappointed, she kept her face rigid. once, she tried telling him that things always worked for the best, but stopped when she saw the empty look in his eyes. 

one evening, he spent a long time in the toilet. then he came out and told her that the time for the announcement of the scholarship had passed. if he hadn’t received the letter, he had not been selected. he would look for  a job. she knew he had been crying. 

that night, she’d cried herself to sleep. and many nights thereafter – every time he enviously looked at the university building; when he vented about “paper-pushing” at work; when his mouth set in a hard line on hearing about others who had pursued their goals.

he had turned to her at the door, and said, “things did work out after all.” she had smiled.

tonight, she would sleep well.

Cut, Slash, Burn

* this post is dedicated to a very special friend – you know who you are 😉  

i have worked in the publishing field as an editor/sub-editor for some time now – and my job has left an indelible (its) mark on me. i can no longer just read. i need to read.

once known for writing verbose pieces that thrived on sheer description, i have now become the monster with the big red pen that cuts articles down to size. whole paragraphs are tossed out when they don’t fit the layout, words simplified and elaborate leads shortened.

when i read a book now, or when i see excessively long paragraphs. i want to put the pages into an indesign file and edit them. i writhe when i see spelling mistakes. i hate badly formed sentences so much so, (- ) i actually take a pen and scratch them out or correct them.

little wonder then that writers don’t like me very much. after all the effort they put (in) into filling up a page, they don’t want to see it reduced to half or quarter its former state. maybe the colour of the sky was a(n) deep azure blue on that beautiful, balmy day, but that doesn’t fit our very limited page space, complete with photographs. and our designers refused to give us more space (help/listen).

on a lighter vein:

Gorgeous Golu: When Dolls Come Alive!

the golu in all its glory

if you had been in chennai sometime between the 26th of september and the 5th or 6th of october, you might have seen women and young girls dressed in colourful silks hurrying along. where are they going, dressed so beautifully? stop one of them and ask and they would reply – to the ‘golu’ at their friends’ or relatives’ houses, of course!

you would most probably be extended a polite invite to join them or to even visit their homes, and be treated to an explanation of what ‘golu’ is as well.

‘kolu’ or ‘golu’ is a traditional system of celebration, popular in south

a traditional dancing doll

india, that involves a display of dolls for nine days. couple of days before the onset of ‘navrathri’ (*nine nights), the women of the household become very busy. boxes, tables and even bricks are sourced; a space is cleared out in a room, and a structure with an odd number of descending steps (with anywhere between 1 to 9 levels) is built. the steps are then covered with a cloth or sari, and lo! you have a beautiful base for the doll display! (now you even have ready-made golu stands made of metal that can be collapsed and put away.)

next comes the arrangement of the dolls. figures made from clay and paper-mâché  are brought out from storage, dusted and then arranged atop the steps. the beauty of golu is that every house boasts a unique arrangement. the ladies’ collections of dolls are built up over several years, with pieces inherited from their mother or mother-in-law, with one new piece added each year to the display. special golu markets spring up all over the city, and families flock there to bargain with the toy sellers

a mini village scene

and pick and choose from the latest arrivals. from tiny little dolls to images that come up to half your height; gods and goddesses, dancing dolls; scenes from villages, market places or weddings; whole families of animals; models of fruits and vegetables – all of these vie for attention, waiting to find a new home.

back home, the dolls are arranged according to a pattern: the top levels are dedicated to gods and goddesses, the mid levels to gurus or religious figures, the next couple of steps for social events, and the last for animals, birds or random human figurines. those with a creative bent add realistic little parks with sand strewn around, or twist fairy-lights along the steps to lend a festive touch.

a wedding in progress

as you go to different houses through the nine days, you would notice that this is an event specially for women. female family members and friends visit each to view the display, and talented singers are asked to grace the occassion with a song or to. guests are welcomed graciously and served sweets and a snack known as ‘sundal’ made from lentils, peas or chickpeas, lightly sauteed with spices and grated coconut. when the guest makes a move, she receives a small gift as a token of appreciation with the customary set of betel leaves, vermillion powder and turmeric. at the end of each day, aarti is performed before the golu (*a custom whereby a mixture of water, vermilion and turmeric is waved before the structure, and later poured out).

fruit moulded from clay

having observed this beautiful tradition, you might wonder how this custom came about. the origin of the word ‘kolu’ can be traced to ‘kolu’ in tamil or ‘koluvai’ in telgu, which means a ‘sovereign sitting in his royal durbar or court’. belief is that arranging the dolls depicts that goddess mahishasuramardini (durga) is sitting in her Kolu, prior to the slaying of the demon mahishasura.

according to some other sources, the ‘navrathri’ is supposed to represent the cycle of creation and dissolution of the world. the arrangement of dolls on the golu steps symbolise the order of creation – gods, demi-gods, humans, animals – with the structure said to be a representation of the cosmos. some legends even carry it so far as to say that the dolls are to be treated as if they were alive, and this is the reason why aarti is performed every evening for the golu.

in line with the view that creation is followed by dissolution, on the evening of the last day of navrathri – known as ‘vijayadasmi’ – the dolls are made to lie down or ‘sleep’ – which symbolises the end of the cycle.

as the navrathri comes to a close, the dolls are carefully packed and put away in boxes or lofts, where they await their turn to come alive the next year.

*photographs by yamini vasudevan – do not use or reproduce in any form without permission