Kicha

2

After gulping the complain while paati stood there urging him to finish it, Kicha took off and landed his plane a dozen times. Paati being the epitome of patience stood begging him, literally to take another sip. Kicha is not like the kids that don’t eat and strave themselves, but he just didn’t like complain first thing in the morning. He preferred curri-vadams, a rice-papad like preparation, cream biscuits or chips but amma would not have him devour them so early in the morning. Kicha could never understand why he had to drink that boring glass of milk first thing the morning. He sometimes felt that even the toothpaste tasted better. Most days he did finally drink it, like today when he didn’t want to cross paths with amma. On days when he longed for attention, he would cry and act sick at the sight of milk and manage to avoid it.

After the final gulp, which paati reasoned contained all the strength to make him as strong as hanuman, Kicha brought out his school bag – a tattered black satchel with the picture of Spiderman. Kicha wasn’t particularly fond of Spiderman but having seen gautham anna carrying a similar bag, Kicha fancied this bag. And when he saw a similar bag at the Bata outlet Kicha wanted nothing else but THAT bag. He begged for it and even promised his parents that he would study well if they bought him that bag. In the beginning, amma reasoned out that the bag would be too big for him,but she finally gave in when she saw no signs of Kicha budging. One week after school re-opened Kicha had broken its zip, torn one of its side pockets and now the bag was an eyesore. Kicha turned his bag upside down and out fell three hardbound notebooks, a blue pencil box, two three textbooks, a spoon, a wrapper of caramel toffee, a broken natraj pencil and pencil shaving. He picked up of of the notebooks and started flipping through the pages while calling for his mother “amma, ammaaaaaaaaaaa!”.

Paati called out to Latha, saying Kicha, being the darling that he is has brought out his books. Meanwhile Kicha shouted impatiently. “I want to go amma, will you come?”. Drying her hands in her saree, Latha walked and picked the notebook flipping hurriedly. “Handwriting is still very bad Kicha. See what miss has written. .. you are always in a hurry. Do you remember the story of hare and the tortoise…” she began. Kicha impatiently cried “Ammmma! I want to go out..” Finally Latha found his homework and managed to get Kicha to scribble his cursive handwriting and simple addition homework. Even before she could put the bag aside Kicha was gone. Latha was furious, lameting about his lack of violin practice and even hinting at his grandparents for spoiling Kicha. What followed was a verbal duel between the mother-in-law and daughter-in-law which finally woke up Naren, Kicha’s dad.

When the world looked a little more liveable..

I am not a very social person to travel with. While in the train I prefer an upper birth or a side lower birth for the simple reason that I won’t be bothered. I like to curl up with my book and alternate between reading, sleeping and eating and choose to come down only when it’s absolutely necessary. My recent journey from Chennai to Ahmedabad was no different. After strategically exchanging my boring lower birth for the priceless upper birth, I almost never got down during the 36 hour journey. There were times when my co-passengers even asked if I would want to sit down for a change but I declined their offer every time. No, don’t get me wrong. I don’t dislike these people. But it’s only during these journeys I get time for myself and for my reading and I just don’t like to waste that opportunity. Any efforts to strike a conversation were met with minimalistic polite replies and then I would get back to my throne.

After successfully blocking my Sim card and finishing two books back to back I slept there having lost a sense of time and utterly bored. So when I found my co=passengers packing and lining their baggages, I was alarmed. I assumed that we were about to reach and scrambled down, only to realise its Anand and we have a full 3 hour ride left before we reach Ahmedabad. Finding my bogey empty and with no books to read, I decided to stay put and sat by the window seat gazing at the station and what unfolded after that made me wonder how much I had missed. Close to 5pm I assume the sky was looking brilliant. As the first signs of sunset emerged, the sky began to turn a brilliant pink laced by orange streaks , retaining a certain amount of blue that bordered around violet in the interface. As I sat gaping at the skyline, the foliage began getting greener. I could see through the branches of trees and admired the wonderful silhouette they were creating for me. Meanwhile the sky had turned orange and pink, as if set aflame, hues I never imagined existed, hues I suspect no artist can ever reproduce on canvas. I sat there admiring the visual poetry that had unfolded before me unaware of time or space. I wished I had a camera, then dismissed the pompous thought for assuming a camera could capture even little of the grandeur I was witnessing. As we entered Ahmedabad, the soil, the shrubs, the tree.. they all got so familiar. It was like I had seen them a million times over in MICA, outside on the way to the city and back and asked myself how I never noticed the beauty. I chided myself for missing out on million opportunities that had presented themselves to me in the past.

By the time we were near Ahmedabad, the sky was a burnt orange canvas decorated by numerous black burnt trees that presented a perfect picture portrait. I resolved to make note, and resolved to do a number of things which included watching sunrises/sunsets at MICA, take an early morning walk to Shela, paint whatever I can recollect someday, write a poem.. they did kindle the artistic side of my brain J. But what I did is wrote this, to remind me of how a seemingly boring journey turned out to be a nature fare and lot more.

When I went to my parents wedding...

There is a disused room upstairs, originally planned to be my music room cum home studio. But well that back back then when I was training to be a professional classical singer. My mom uses that room to store her junk, broken furniture, old books and stuff like that. There is always an air of mystery about that room and my visit to chennai is incomplete without a visit to that room. I always end up finding something interesting like old comic books, my class x slam book (now thats another story), old unread books (which come in handy during my long train ride to amdavad), music notes, my grand mom's tanpura, old clothes..

I went up today to get my old speakers and a book for my journey and while rummaging the bags for my speakers I stumbled upon my parents wedding album and a whole bunch of old photographs which is how I went to my parents wedding :).

As I sat flipping through the album I felt an odd sad feeling but I still went on flipping. There was a sense of deja vu .. I could almost smell the jasmines on my mom's head, sense the excitement and tension on my aunts and uncles faces, and above all a feeling of nostalgia of the hours I have spent looking the album with my paati identifying relatives, commenting on saris, listening to anecdotes about my parents wedding like how some aunt of mine threw a tantrum or something..

Then there was this album with my childhood snaps and this brought in a stronger sense of nostalgia.. cause every snap in the album told a story of its own - its own smell, the clothes which I had worn numerous times, friends, that particular room, even the brown box peeping into the snap from the kitchen in our old house.. guess memories just get stuck in some part of the brain and keep visiting us from time to time!

Hours flew by and I lost a sense of time as I sat mesmerized by old fotos - as I sat staring at my mom's saris, my concert pics, my cousins who's pattu pavadais I later inherited, .. oh well I could just go on..

Sometimes when I click snaps these days I wonder why do it at all, after a cursory upload on FB or orkut we almost never re-visit them.. a sheer waste of disc space.. but today I found a reason capture seemingly mundane moments in life.. so that someday 20years from now I will be able to sit back gazing at them and smelling all those old smells!

Kicha

He is the tiny little entertainment package of the house. He transforms seemingly boring moments to pleasant, laughable ones. Today Kicha got up at 6am and was already begging his paati and amma at the kitchen to be let out to play. He made sad innocent faces at his grand mom who sat cutting keerai(spinach) and vendakkai(lady’s finger) on the aravamanai, a knife like instrument, while his mom was busy cooking by the stove. His paati kept mum knowing Latha, Kicha’s mom, would get wild if she protested for Kicha. She knew Latha would reason out that it’s too early and Kicha would fall ill if he over-exerted himself during the weekend and then end up bunking school on Monday. To his grandparents, Kicha was the apple of their eyes. They adored him and found every little act of his; be it his antics or his little arrogant replies, intelligent. They constantly revelled on how intelligent their grandson was and lost no opportunity to talk about Kicha in front of strangers, relatives and friends alike. If paati was his slave incarnate, thatha, his grandpa was Kicha’s friend and playmate. While paati bathed him, fed him and also saved him from the wrath of his parents, thatha played with him, dropped him at school and told him nice stories.

Today Kicha was clad in his favourite arai-baniyan and shorts. Arai-baniyan was a thin half vest which was quite comfortable given Madras’ humid climate and made a perfect play-cum-night dress. Further since he wore it to school inside his uniform, he just had to remove his shirt and change his shorts. Kicha himself was like an overgrown brinjal – round, smooth and plump. But he was extremely light on his legs and could give you a tough time if you were to chase him while playing games like freeze-n-melt and hopping and catching, though his personal favourites were street cricket (when he was included as OP by the street “annas” or the bigger boys) and WWF card games. For a four year old, Kicha was tall and intelligent. He had inherited his father’s good looks and his mother’s plumpness. On school days Kicha would get up by 7:30 am after being shouted at by his mother and cajoled by his paati and then thatha. But weekends were different altogether. Kicha waited for weekends and loved all the time he had for playing. Not that Kicha hated school, for he was quite good at studies as well and had a happy-go-lucky attitude. He surprised his mom by getting brilliant scores without studying a bit, but like all mothers, Latha wanted him to spend more time with the books. “What would happen when he reaches tenth standard if he continues at this rate?” she would reason out. “He surely can’t pass board exams if he has such a carefree attitude!” she would argue. Lakshmi paati could never win such arguments with her daughter-in-law and would give in to her reasoning. She would lament but agree that these days one cannot survive with normal grades and Latha after all wanted the best for Kicha.

Kicha continued begging his mom and paati. Now he started focussing on his mother knowing well that paati is not going to support him this morning. After all, she just made a sorry face at him and gotten back to cutting her keerai. He reminded his mom of a promise she made last Wednesday when he had done his maths omerk without protest. Oh by the way, Kicha had his own lingo, and omerk in Kicha-tongue meant homework. His paati adored his mazhalai while his mom corrected his accent and pronunciation. Paati would say these things would change automatically but Latha, the “convent educated girl” never bought her reasoning. She would painstakingly correct Kicha’s english pronunciation and for some strange reason ignore his tamizh mazhalai and let them be. So, after Kicha said “homework” while paati’s forehead cringed a little, Latha went back to reminding him of how the deal was on, only if he completed his homework on Friday night and also practiced his violin lessons first thing in the morning. Kicha thumped his leg in agony and began wailing. He accused his mother of being a real bore and told her how Harish’s mom never compelled him like this.

Now, Harish was Kicha’s best friend and Harish’s mom also adored Kicha. Sheela aunty, Harish’s mom was a housewife unlike Kicha’s mom, and cooked tasty lunches for Harish every day. He even reminded his mom of how Sheela aunty treats Harish with toffees when he gets good grades. Latha continued garnishing the milagu rasam and started washing the rice while the water in the pressure cooker started boiling. She then set the rice inside, closed the lid firmly, set the cooker weight while Kicha continued his ranting and all of a sudden turned to face Kicha. Kicha edged towards the door and stopped talking midway. Drying her hands on her cotton saree, she gave Kicha a meaningful glare. “Kicha, if you want to go out to play then you have to drink your complan, do your homework and violin lessons. I am not going to hear you out anymore. Do you want me to wake up daddy?” She asked. Kicha knew this was it. He always knew when his protests failed and ‘shall I wake up daddy’ threat was the ultimatum. He thumped his foot and walked out of the kitchen and cuddled next to his grandpa on the easy-chair where his thatha sat reading his paper while sipping his sugarless filter coffee.

Thatha gave him a knowing look and whispered something into Kicha’s ears which lit up his face instantly and Kicha kissed his thatha, slid down from the chair and ran to his room to get his fighter plane even as paati entered the room with his glass of complan. Sadness never lasted for more than a moment in Kicha’s life.