The horizon was slate-gray, the rain was grimy, and the road was strewn with dirt; like god had washed his ashtray. The sky looked down in a grimace, an angry wife waiting to start throwing things, now silent and brooding. Potholes hid under sheets of water flowing from one side of the badly banked road to the other. Every time I hit one I apologized to my car, but like a thoroughbred she was taking it well. I had covered nearly all fourteen districts of the state in the last week or so, alone and absolutely at peace with the world. My only constant companion was the rain. "God is my co-driver" Senna had said. Well the rain was mine.
At every gas station, every chai-stop the discussion was always the weather. Wasn't it Mark Twain who said that everyone talks about the weather, but no one does anything about it? It was a strange rain, unusual for the time of the year. Roads had been washed away, cities were grid locked, power was down and the only smiling faces were kids who got unscheduled holidays. One wise cigarette vendor told me "Even pokunna varey inganey aayirikkum", which directly translates to "It's going to be like this until he (the rain) goes." This seemed a very stupid statement for a wise old ciagarette-walah, until I realized that he meant Ivan, the hurricane or whatever it was that had battered the west. Another lesson learnt -pronunciation is nothing, information is everything, this is Kerala, and we are like this only.
Every field was brown and green, every river swollen and muddy. The rain was all-pervasive. Bikers drove around with plastic bags on their heads as protection. Ever so often, a tree acted spoilsport by lying down across the road. PHHHTTT!there goes the power in the nearby town. I left the windows down most of the time, so the cigarette smoke would not hang on the upholstery, and that had made the seats and most of my clothes wet. They now occupied the back seat, and I was down to my last pair of shorts. Every afternoon and night I was required to call home and report my location, further route plans and distance covered in the last few hours. This last bit of information was for my Mom to do some quick mental math and work out my average speed. S = D/T...hmm...mumble-mumble...ADVICE (where S is speed in km/hr, D is distance in km, T is time in hours and advice in varying degrees of dark humour and pessimism.)
I stopped for lunch at Aleppy after 3 straight hours of exhilarating driving. A small place with a view of the paddy fields (not that you can escape them in Aleppy) and more importantly a phone booth. I didn't want to stop anywhere after lunch and this promised to be the perfect pit stop. The smell of kappa-meencurry was strong enough to whet my appetite to its full ferocity. I ordered a plate of the same and headed booth-wards to make my report to Mom. She was waiting as usual and picked up the phone on the first ring. It's like a psychological weapon Moms use to drive home the fact that their very existence is dependent on that phone call.
"Hi Amma, am at Aleppy having lunch'Kappa and meencurry'... Yeah it is raining... No three hours is not too fast to hit Aleppy, Dad did it in 2! Yeah I know he is the worst driver you've ever known but I took one hour more so relax...I'll be home by 5:30...what?..ok by 6:30...see you there then. Bye."
The food was as good as the aroma had promised. The rain had stopped as if challenging me to start driving again. I lit a cigarette, bills were paid, questions from the guy about my destination and the weather in the places I had passed were ignored and I got into my car again. The moment I pulled out on to the road, it started pouring.
The road from Aleppy to Angamali was a driver's dream - four-lanes, good surfaces, an international standard highway. The signboards were the only aberration. Put up by various departments that seemed to be at loggerheads, the distance to a certain town could be anything from 32km to 43 km depending on your political affiliations, bribes paid, apathy or maybe something less significant like an absolute lack of geographical knowledge. I had a system that seemed to work- take the difference between the distances shown on the blue and yellow boards and add it to the distance shown on the green tourism board. I believed it was all part of some intricate plan to throw any imperialistic aggressors off their invasion plans. Well it wasn't working with me.
Despite my mom's warnings I made it to Trichur by 5:15 and was wondering whether I should head straight home and face the music, or stop over at Mini's for the best burgers in the world. Home was now about 10 km away and I still hadn't made up my mind. The rain was now pulling out everything in its arsenal to show me that all that mileage still hadn't taken away from its stamina. I took a curve, overtaking a big blue ponderous Merc (Mom would have screamed her head off) and suddenly there was a crowd of people in the middle of the road.
I slammed on the brakes and heard the squealing tyres of the Merc behind me. In front of me was a golden Santro surrounded by people. They were trying to make him roll down his windows. "Bloody hartal," I thought, cursing my timing. Another 45 minutes and it would have been over. "Wonder why mom didn't tell me about it". I looked in the rear view mirror planning an escape route from the mob wrath, but the Merc wasn't budging. The Santro driver in front leaned on the horn, twisted off the road and drove off. The mob turned its attention to me and started for my car. I was stuck.
The leader ran up to my window and tapped for me to open it. I rolled it down and had just opened my mouth with some vague explanation when he said, " Please saar"accident. Help.
" I looked up and through the crowd of people and behind them I saw a man lying on the road, a neat circular cut across his forehead. The blood mixed with the rainwater and managed to look much more profuse than it really was. Another man stood next to him holding a child in his arms. I couldn't make out the extent of the kid's injuries, all I could see were his legs dangling over the man's arms, one shoe missing, jerking around all loose and lifeless.
I hurriedly opened the doors for them and the man with the kid jumped into the front seat. I didn't look. Another three guys got in the back and put the man across their legs."Which hospital?" I asked. One of the guys from the back seat shouted, "Medical College only they take accidents. Put your headlights on and don't spare the horn." The man at the back, who I assumed was the kid's dad, started groaning loudly. Not once did he ask about the kid. I thought that was strange. I drove like a maniac through the crowded and flooded city streets, pulling up into the casualty driveway in about five minutes. Everyone jumped out and dragged the guy onto the waiting stretcher. The guy with the kid in his arms had already run into the building.
I sat there for another 15 minutes, doors all lying open, headlights still on. Then I got out, wiped the blood off the back seats, closed the doors and drove home, slowly. Mom was waiting near the gate, umbrella in hand. She opened it for me and shouted for my brother to come and pick up my stuff.
"Tea?" she asked.
I nodded absently and walked in, taking off my drenched clothes and shoes. She brought me a towel and I wrapped it around myself and sank into the nearest chair. "Thank god you listened to me and drove slow. So many accidents these days, what with the rain and the condition of the roads."
I looked at the clock. It was 6:45. "Yeah Amma, so many accidents, makes one sick. I drove slowly all right."
She put the tea in front of me and hurried off to make some Dosas. I followed her to the kitchen and gave her a hug. "It's good to be home, Amma, good to be home."

Delusional,dazed,neither here nor there...that’s how I woke up this morning. Maybe someday we will learn to harness the energy of dreams and one could get a job where all he has to do is sleep and dream..imagine getting paid for that. For now however I guess I have to stick to the routine of the 15min-wake-up-get-dressed-go!.

And of all the days today my estranged colleague, an integral part of our 'to-work' car pool, decided to start an early day, thereby disturbing my overnight meditation routine earlier than it was supposed to it. Now that accounted for most of the crankiness early morning. I managed though which is why I am sitting in my cubicle right now, against my better judgment, eyes weary, trying to focus on anything other than the gazillion emails that look like corn flakes in my inbox. Mainly because they are all the same mundane emails I get everyday. Someone's feeble attempt to look busy by sending out scripts that contain miniscule problems that have been camouflaged to actually reflect something short of a global warming problem.

It isn’t all grey and lethargic though, I still have my sumptuous lunch buffet and my gamut of newspapers to read. These are the two main highlights of my day. Lunch because it involves me going to the cafeteria and gossiping with the other aliens on the block while mouthing down some pretty good Indo-Chinese Anglican(basically cos I have no idea!)food. There was a routine of having my desert with puffs of nicotine which I have kind of given up at the moment, so it normally ends with me retorting to the loo and back to work.
Reading the newspaper is another highlight that I absolutely adore, mainly because it takes my mind off things and to me its like reading an enhanced more mature version of a picture book I used to read when I was little.

After that I guess I need to muster the will power to actually get my work done.

But Thursdays are good days, days that are welcome in my book any time. It marks the beginning of the much awaited auspicious weekend which following the laws of the universe ends up to be more tiring (definitely more fun) than the week itself.

Full cheer to the hopefully in definitively long weekend!!!!!..

My purpose is off balance

my sense of place

no longer defined

these life changes

and decisions

pluck their way

through me

like wildflowers

and dogwood blossoms

falling

into my lap

and asking me,

"What now?'

Time will tell....time will tell....

"This is the last boarding call for passengers on AF1068 to Barcelona" the loudspeaker went!

"Oh shit that’s my flight"

Davis had been so enwrapped in his thoughts, enjoying his coffee that he had lost count of time. His world was complicated all right and in that world everything went as he wanted it to, perfect! Time seemed to stand still there, which he had loved. He never had enough time and when he had, it wasn’t time he wanted and couldn’t do anything he wanted to.

Davis made a dash for the boarding gate. He had pictured an angry flight attendant waiting for this vagabond passenger who had no value for time and the other people on the flight. Luckily it wasn’t the case; there was quite a line actually. He arrived and stood in line panting. He took a moment to catch his breath. He shifted his head right out of line and tried to take a look at how many people were ahead of him...he also caught a glimpse of the attendant in front checking tickets. She was tall, blonde slender...dressed well. He had always had a thing for girls in uniform. But somehow airhostesses had degenerated over the years. He remembered a time when getting on a plane was an absolute thrill. He used to always get a chance to visit the cockpit and his eyes used to light up watching all the lights and high tech gadgets in there. It was the coolest thing ever. As he grew older and his hormones came into play, it was not about just flying that wanted him to become a pilot, but the opportunity to meet all the beautiful women. And he had thought them to be the sweetest and most beautiful people on the planet with their looks and smiles and charm. The hormones grew and Davis wised up. Later he realized that they were not anything special, just women who were dressed up and trained well enough to pull off the smile and sweet look.

"Can I have your boarding pass please?” she said. They were indeed trained well he thought handing her a piece of paper with his seat number and other details. “This way please” she motioned into the plane with her smile. The training must be fantastic! the way she was trained to point with her index finger pointing outwards and the other fingers folded yet not folded, all moving in a synchronized grace was amazing. Wonder how long that class lasted he thought.

It was back to where he was an hour ago, but this time in a new plane, headed to his final destination, and with an old lady seated next to him. Sweet or not he was yet to find out. The airport looked bustling outside his small window. Probably they made it small so you couldn’t see far enough or wide enough to realize the realities of a place. Everything looked beautiful through that glass window.

It had been a tiring day so far. Davis figured he should get some shut eye because he needed all the energy once he landed to find a place to stay and get settled.

He opened his eyes slowly to find everything pretty much the same . What could change? His room was now one seat, which was his bedroom and only room apart from the dining room which was the collapsible table in front of him. There were aromas of food in the air though, which was a good sign because he could feel his stomach growling. Though most people he knew hated plane food, he had always fancied it because it fascinated him how they managed to pack allot of things all neatly and arranged in a small tray. At home he would generally have a meal with rice, one non-veg dish ,one veg. dish and some pappads (a crispy chips kind of a thing),and of course something sweet. And it always occurred to him that one plate was way too small. But here they had used some complicated computer program or something beyond him, to pack so many things in a small tray.

"Would you like my chocolate" the lady said. She seemed sweet. She reminded him of his own grandmother. “You see my son, I am diabetic. I wish I could eat them, I love them so much."

"Oh thank you so much....I love chocolates a lot too, maybe someday I won’t be able to eat them as well"

She reminded him of his own grandmother. Actually not his own but his grandmother's sister. He was closer to her and loved her more even though he saw her far less often. She used to love chocolates and all sweet things for that matter. She used to ask him at many a gathering to get her an extra scoop of ice cream or an extra Jamun from the desert table. She had told him she felt embarrassed asking them for an extra and when kids did it, it was ok. She was always very sweet to him and they used to talk for hours, talking about how she had seen life, her experiences and so on. It always fascinated him. Maybe also because she had a unique knack of telling stories that he used to listen with his eyes all glittering with excitement. It had been more than a year since she passed away and how he missed their chats and sneaking sweets for her. He used to miss her more at all those family gathering where he felt alone and different. She would have helped him through his life’s many dilemmas. She would have understood him. She always did.

"I’ll tell you what; why don’t you have a tiny piece with me?” Davis said.

"No my love I shouldn’t. If my daughter finds out she will kill me.." she adorned a beautiful grin on her face. Davis could see she wanted to so badly, but knew she shouldn’t. Davis went ahead and broke a tiny piece for her, just enough so she could just taste it and handed it to her with a smile. She took it and said "I shouldn't but I guess a tiny piece won’t hurt"

"You know I’m going to visit my daughter. She works in Barcelona. She always wants me to go stay with her. Oh I know it’s not because she wants to spend time with her mom. She just wants somebody to look after her young Daniel when she goes to work. At least I can spend some time with my grandchild.” She lowered her head. There was a lot of agony in the poor old woman. Davis could only imagine what his kids would be like. He knew he would tolerate no such thing. But sometimes in life, you love so much and would do anything to be with your loved ones. Davis felt sad for her and wanted to say something that would cheer her up.

"You know..." he said "...at least you will have Daniel growing up with memories of you and which he would always cherish"

She smiled again and said "Thank you my son...someday you will make some lucky girl very happy"

He felt happy, but the thought of a lucky girl had worried him. Who would it be? He wondered. All his relationships had always ended up in failure. He thought of the saying “all is fair in love and war” What the hell did it mean he had wondered? It was never fair at least not to him. Some crazy fool had said that once, trying to justify his loss of a loved one, and delirious and deprived of love as he was, made up something vague that nowadays people used as a tool to explain the loss of a loved one.

.....The seatbelt sign blinked above him. They were about to land in Barcelona. They fastened their seat belt and she looked at him and said. It was nice to meet you....aaaa....."
"Davis..."
"Davis...my name is Agatha"
"It was nice to meet you too"
"I wish you the best of luck...with everything” she said that and winked at him gently tilting her head towards him.
Davis smiled. He was about to land in Barcelona. It all lay in front of him now. There was no turning back now. He was there. He was going to taste a new life, new people, new experiences...one that he wouldn’t have even imagined in his wildest dreams. It would be a new page in his book of life..one that would lead to Barcelona being one of his favourite places....

to be continued

back to Chapter I

He sat staring into the open blue space in front of him, a million feelings and emotions running through his mind sadness, joy, excitement, apprehension it all came together. It looked all so serene and calm through the tiny window.” can I get you anything sir” came a beautiful voice. Davis was jolted back to reality "err...no...oh...no thank you" he replied all confused.

Davis was on his way to Europe, his first time ever, pursuing his higher studies. A daring attempt it had been. it all started a year back when he had just completed his engineering.” what next?” was the question he was asked many a time. Even though he had no clue what was next he used to tell them he wanted to go for an MBA and specialise in marketing. People always looked at a person who knew what he wanted as the responsible one. Davis never understood it though. One should consider a person more responsible if he says something like I have not figured it out yet. I want to do some research and find out what I like and then decide. Now there was someone who was thorough, he always used to argue. But then people used to retort saying "oh after engineering MBA is the best" well why? He wanted to ask but he put a lid on it. For one, who cares what they thought. They would probably say something like mmm...because some relative of his did engineering and then an MBA and landed this fabulous job in some part of the U.S where I imagine was in the middle of nowhere. This is how a lot of the things happened where he came from. People just followed what they were told or what was popular not thinking for a minute if it would do them good or if there were other "not so popular" options that were better. There is a joke that goes: a Nair (a very common family name in India) landed in Dubai one day ...he tried and tried and finally on the third day landed a job. He spoke of riches and the good life and promised visas to many members of his family. Couple of months later there were 10 more Nairs in Dubai and more and more. It all started with one person’s exaggeration and now the Dubai govt is thinking of naming a city "Nairdubai".

Davis opened the fridge and grabbed a can of coke. The question had still remained "what do I do next?” He knew for one he wanted to get out, see the world and be free, independent, fly where his eye could see no one to ask him why? How? When? Who with? But how would he go about it? Where would he start? He ran his fingers through his hair and pulled at his hair. He remembered those days when he was a kid and all he had to choose between was if he wanted the blue ball or the red one, a snickers or a mars. Life was better then. That’s why they called it the good old days he thought. That made him smile a little. I should relax and see what happens he thought. It’s not the end of the world. There’s tones of time and I’m in no hurry...

"Ding!.... good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry to inform you that we have encountered some turbulence. I would like everyone to fasten their seatbelts and we should be back to smooth sailing soon...thank you”. Click click click, Davis heard seatbelts being clicked everywhere. He thought it funny how people reacted and his mind went wild thinking he could actually, possibly co-ordinate all the clicking to make some good music.

Sure he was excited. His thoughts shifted towards his new life in Europe, Barcelona to be precise. New place, new friends a new adventure on its own. He always had dreamed of going to Europe, he was fascinated by the people the way they were free and the way they lived life like they chose to, doing what they felt like. He had hated how back home society had dictated what could be done and what could not, without any rationale, just because that was how it was done for generations. Yes for sure he was excited .it was going to be one hell of an adventure! He felt at peace now. Davis closed his eyes and pushed his chair back. It’s all going to be great.

He was awakened by the announcement on the speaker above. He was going to land in Paris soon. He pulled his seat back upright and looked out of the window. The evening sun had mad the clouds glow with an orangish tinge. It looked picturesque. Paris, one of the most romantic cities on the planet. He pondered on what it will be like even though he was just transiting.

People were now opening the overhead lockers as the plane came to a halt. They all seemed weary and eager to leave the craft and go back to their busy lives. Davis seemed to be the only one on the entire aircraft with his face all lit up. It was all new to him. He knew though he had to rush .his next flight to Barcelona was only one hour away. He remembered how he had argued with his dad to book another flight so he could spend more time in Paris. “Why? It is more than enough time "his dad had said. And once his dad had spoken that was it. There was no discussion. That was how things were. But he had thought the world of his father. He had been the one person in the whole world Davis always wanted to be like, responsible, all organised, and never late always prompt and never forgot anything. People back home had come to respect him. He was an honorable man that they all loved. He had his differences with his dad especially in the way he thought and the way he saw life, in a more open free minded spirit. He was often called 'daring' by his other cousins, who envied the freedom he enjoyed, because he always fought with everyone and as far as possible did things the way he believed in. his aunts and uncles used to tell their children “Davis is spoilt, his parents give him too much freedom. See how he goes out with his friends and comes back late.” some used to say he had been spotted in the city with one too many girls. But he was least bothered. For him as long his mom and dad were ok with things there were no problems. Little did he realise then that he was an odd apple. He would soon prove himself to be different from them all so much that his mom and dad would begin thinking and worrying about the way he was going. Nothing wrong of course just that the underlying concept of the generation gap couldn’t have been more pronounced.

The first step out of the plane and a whish of cool air hit his face. People pulled their coats closer. All Davis wanted to do was stretch his arms out and feel the air gently caressing his whole body. He had always had an inclination towards the cold. It was much better than the humidity back home that made him sweat. I’m going to love Europe he thought.

He walked through the glass channels at the Charles-de Gaulle airport. Gate 1-4 that way, 5-8 that way it was a maze. Mmm which one should I take? he pulled out his ticket and glanced at the red print that read gate no 6.ok that way. He walked briskly keeping a closed tab on the time. It looked nearby. His dad was right as usual there would be enough time. He had hated when that happened. 'His dad being right as usual' it had always made him feel like a fool. Ever so occasionally his dad had been wrong, but in matters of something related to technology or something that his dad didn’t understand much. Then he used to feel bad and wished he was 'right as usual’. He wanted him to be the greatest perfect person no matter what. The gate was further though. There was quite a queue in front too. Oh not a queue he thought. He hated waiting in a line, his resentment surpassed only by his hatred for stairs.

"Next" the man shouted. His turn had come. “Passport and ticket please”. He handed his documents. The officer looked at his passport then back at him and then back at the passport and then back at him again. Davis though "oh shit the same problem everywhere" he had cut his hair short and lost weight since that passport photograph and it always created a problem. Please wait here sir, “next" he continued. After the line cleared the officer turned to Davis and said, “Please follow me sir.” Davis reluctantly followed. He thought of the damn French and how it was only common sense that people change. The officer took him to his office and said “sir why are you traveling to Barcelona?"

"I am going to study there"
"Where?"
"In 'The Academy', it is a business school"
"Do you have any documents to prove that?"
mmm...to prove that? He thought. Why should i prove it? You can take my word for it if you want to he thought. He had all the documents with him but he wasn’t about to just pull them out and show them.

"No sir, I was granted admission and i have come on a student visa”, he said.

"Ok, please wait"

This cannot be happening he thought. the damn French now became the bloody French! After a while Davis realised that his characteristic cancerian stubbornness would only make him miss his flight and mess up things further. So he pulled out his fees payment receipt which had the ESADE logo on it and approached the office.

"Excuse me? Will this help?"
The officer glanced at it and Davis could make out that he had no idea what was written, all the script being in Spanish. After a moment's silence he said “yes sir, you may proceed".

Davis turned took his bag on his shoulders and hadn't taken his first step when the officer said "excuse me. T-H-A-N-K Y-O-U?"
Thank you for what he thought, his veins popping out his head. But he put on a brilliant smile and said "thank you" and moved on.
From there on till the security check it was all French this and French that. Finally 15 minutes before boarding time Davis made it to the boarding gate. "Oh I need some nicotine and a dose of caffeine" he thought aloud and marched on with his bag. The bag had begun to resemble an elephant on his back. he though of those days back home where he had somebody for everything - to wash his clothes, carry his bag, drive him around. He was king back home. He never though he would so soon, but "I do miss home" he thought!

continue to Chapter II

Twenty-four years ago, I said goodbye to Kerala on the west coast in southern India, land of my ancestors and my terre natale. I wasn't aware then of the shroud of mysticism veiling that ancient subcontinent. I didn't promise to return. I didn't know when. Or if. Women in my family have always left. India was behind me and I looked to my future westward. I knew it meant marriage and motherhood. But what else? I left behind temples swathed in incense, shimmering silk saris and jasmine garlands, lush green palm groves and smoky kitchens where the aroma of spices was ingrained in the stone walls. I exchanged it all for eight months of winter, a steady income, tulips and daffodils, pine trees, a dishwasher and a microwave. I exchanged a world of odours, noise and colours for a pristine white landscape embalmed in comfort and serenity. Now I was going home after a long, long time.

It had been so long that I found myself searching for words in Malayalam. I hoped that it was only a momentary lapse and that once I was there, it would all come back to me. It was not a happy occasion. Just a week ago, I had received a call at 2 a.m. I hated these early morning calls: they were always transcontinental and they were never good news. Father has had a heart attack, my sister Shanthi told me, her voice shockingly unfamiliar. Come home quickly, Devan.

It took me a week to get together passport and visa and to brood briefly over the matter of cholera vaccine and malaria pills. I made no list of things to do. I took no gifts. I wondered how my mother was bearing it. Would I recognise her? It had been so long! Would she be terribly aged, wrinkled and broken with sorrow? In my mind she was the age I was now: forty-three.
All through Dorval and Heathrow, images of my life in India flashed before my eyes. I couldn't believe so much time had passed. In Kerala, I'd been the child from the city. In the city; Bombay, Bangalore, Chennai or Hydrebad; I was a "Sayapu"(foreigner in colloquial malayalam). So the transition to the West had been a smooth one. Being different was a part of me. It was how others perceived me and so it was probably who I was too.

Mumbai was a brazen assault on my senses. Bombay was loud and congested. Bombay was one festering heap of humanity. I recoiled, eager to get away to the palm groves and backwaters of Cochin.

The airport in Cochin was far from being modern and fancy, though it had a rather authentic feel to it. But outside a rhapsody in green awaited me: green coconut palms, shiny plantain trees set against the dark velvet of the backwaters broken by the tender parrot green of the paddy fields where young shoots wallowed in water. No sooner had I taken a step into the sunshine, than water oozed out of my pores, running in rivulets down my back and temples. The 40 degree heat warmed my frozen soul. I suffered terribly though. The hot sun gave me a headache and I had to wear my sunglasses all the time. It immediately stamped me as the outsider.

Each village that spilled into the next one boasted of a temple, a church and a mosque. Religious tolerance and political magnanimity flourished side by side. I noticed similarities submerged in the masses while contradictions appeared even starker and more unbearable on this paradise of my illusions. I saw brown skin everywhere. Black eyes just like mine. It was a strange feeling. I was no more visible. I disappeared in the background. The Hindu women with pottu (bindhis) on their foreheads and mysterious dark eyes rimmed with glistening kanmashi, wore saris in spectacular hues. Jasmine garlands in their long black braids released a seductive fragrance. The Muslim women wore white raucas, heads only casually covered, no full purdah. The Christian women had enormous gold studs hanging from ear lobes and their munduhs had pleated fans-like tails fanning out at the backs. Children were everywhere, laughing and screaming, the older ones in school uniforms and the young ones naked, showing brown bellies and bottoms. Only the men looked the same, no matter what their religious leanings. They looked cool in their white munduhs and pale shirts. There was a subtle class difference though. The land tillers, labourers, coolies, basically all who worked with their hands, wore lungis in bright prints. Men who worked in offices, banks and schools wore either munduh and shirt with the tails hanging out or the regular pants and shirt. The more daring ones wore T-shirt, jeans and sunglasses. Students, I thought. Kerala was, as usual, in a political turmoil. That was one of the problems. Education was compulsory, so all could read and write. Everybody knew what was best. But nobody knew how to do it. Everybody went on strikes, taking turns. The hottest hotheads were the bus drivers, then came teachers, bank clerks, and even students went regularly on strikes. It was the constitutional right of a Keralite. As a child, on my summer visits from various cities, I'd visit Kerala for short periods. The visits remained in my mind as always too short. I loved the boat rides. Now, in the boat, nobody crowded me. They sat at a respectful distance away from me. My hair, my behaviour betrayed me. The children stared curiously. Nobody said anything, but they knew. Once again, I was different.

My father's body couldn't wait for me. He was cremated according to strict Hindu rites near his favourite cashew tree. It never bore more than a couple of fruit that my father guarded jealously, waiting for the day when it turned red, then yellow. I ran into my aunt's arms (she'd always been more generous with her hugs than my mother) and we both wept. Then she led me through the sandy courtyard to the cashew tree and I prostrated myself under it, calling upon my father's soul to watch over my children and me. To bless them and to forgive me, for they had not known him. Then my mother's arms were around me. She was a little rounder. She sniffed and cleared her throat in that manner that used to irritate the hell out of me before. My daughter did that too. Now, I just hugged her closer to me.
"Arjun mone", she said. "It's been so long."

The Arabian Sea shimmered in the hazy air. I stood on the banks of the backwaters. The air was sultry. Coconut groves cut into the waters and disappeared. The waters widened and merged and mingled with that of the sea. In the shimmering horizon, I saw the graceful arches of the fishing nets; the sky filled with the cries of the water birds whose names I couldn't remember anymore. Close by, a fishing net heavy with silver fish was being reeled in, the fishermen singing to the rhythm of their movements. The zenith was a steely blue with wispy white fingers of cloud floating lazily across the endless expanse. I waited for sunset to hit the waters. The waters turned dark and dappled with the amber flashes of the setting sun. The sky turned a flaming orange that exploded into a bright molten yellow while the horizon turned a tangerine red. The fishing nets hung like giant cobwebs, spread-eagled like an outstretched palm. The bamboo poles anchoring the nets swayed gently in the evening breeze. In the next instant I was enveloped in darkness. The stars lit up a midnight blue sky and the air was heavy with the fragrance of the night blossoms. The darkness brought with it the scent of coriander, cardamom, ginger and cloves from the hearth of the evening fires. The waters were leaden, quiet and full.
There was a catch in my throat. How could I have forgotten it all? I remembered that same ache in my heart when I first glimpsed the grey ribbon of water with the palm groves glistening in the sunshine and houses"palm thatched and shingled"; as the train from Bombay chugged into Ernakulam. I had that same feeling now. The same sun, the same sky, the same sands under my soles. Yet everything was different. I had changed. I'd been barely twenty when I had left then, now I was forty-three.

I promised my mother I'd return. Soon. With my daughter. I wouldn't wait for the early morning telephone summons. Life was too short for that.

To this day, he waits on the sand. Staring out over the waves as the white foam rolls in and tickles his toes. The water's coldness registers in a small part of his mind that isn't consumed with the memory. He could be standing on hot coals and still, he wouldn't move. Wouldn't even shift from foot to foot.
There was once a pattern to his vigil. Each day, he stood on the beach at the same time, peering across to the horizon. Watching. Searching. Waiting. At the same time every day. Six o'clock, regardless of the season.
That's what time it was when she first came to him.
Three seasons have come and gone since and as the weather cooled, he decided to vary his guard. He's been there at dawn. At noon. At midnight. He's charted the cycles of the sun and moon with his patient pattern. Shooting stars have dropped through the blackness at night. Clouds have darkened the sky and rain obscured his vision. He's even been there for a lunar eclipse. But he wouldn't know. These are superfluous.
Tomorrow, he'll go there again at night. Eleven. He might catch her then. He sighs and turns to walk away from the water, looking back, and looking back. Just in case.
"I chose you," she told him that first time. "I knew you would wait for me."
And he knew too. He would walk to the beach and stare out to the horizon until the sea became a glittering blur in the foreground. He knew he was waiting. Searching. Asking.
On a May evening she came. As the sun slipped down between the pale and deep blues, she saw him come to the shore. She watched a smile play at his lips as the waves broke gently and swirled at his feet. Her heart swelled as she prepared to meet him.
Blinking in the confusion of that twilight time, he noticed a stirring of water midway out near the island. A breeze whispered at his ear and made his skin goosepimply. He tasted the fine layer of salt left behind on his mouth as his gaze stayed fixed and he waded further into the surf. Adjusting his eyes to the steel blue haze of early evening, he watched as the slippery vision rolled in with the next wave.
Her long golden hair swam in the shallow water and caressed his calves as she knelt in front of him with an arm stretched up. A shudder surged through his body as he took her cold hand and helped her to her feet. She came up to his shoulders, this tiny, blue-skinned sea nymph, and laughing gently at his puzzled look, she answered his silent question.
"These legs appear when I wheel myself to the shore. What use is a tail on land?"
He covered her nakedness with his jumper, which itched her clammy skin, and they waded onto the sand.
"Do you know that we willed this to happen?" She asked, as they sat on the sand.
He wanted to nod in agreement. Wanted to let out a self-assured "yes." Instead, he stared out to the blackness. But he did know.
There were long silences in their togetherness. So much he wanted to say. So much she already knew. She touched his face softly and traced around his mouth with a finger. "Speak," she beckoned without a sound.
He didn't. Instead, he sighed and slipped an arm around her waist and drew her closer to him. They stayed this way until the moon was high in the sky. Casting his eyes now and then over her delicate form, his heart was full with something like love. His head heavy with thoughts he could not express. The silence was broken only by their breathing. Sighing.
And then she left him.
"Tomorrow, at dusk," she said. He nodded.
The next night, he was there with a dress for her and a towel to dry her wet skin. Again, the tide rose and she swam in to him. His own heart swelled as she again stood before him. She smiled warmly, touched by his thoughtfulness, as she tried on the aqua blue gown.
"It matches my skin!" She giggled, bringing a smile to his lips too. He wrapped his arms around her and held her for an eternity, feeling her coolness fade. Soon, her skin softened into a rosy golden tone. "Please stay," he thought.
"I'd like to show you my world," she sighed, looking deep into his eyes. "But I wonder if you are ready."
Startled by her frankness, he was again struck silent and returned her searching gaze. He shrugged.
"Try?" She asked.
And again, she left him.
"Tomorrow, at dusk," she said once more.
On the third night, when the tide was highest, she came in with a wave that rattled his lanky frame. He laughed nervously as salt water sprayed his face. His feet had sunk deep into the sand and he tried to free himself as she langoured invitingly in the shallow surf. For a moment, he was seized by a resistance. He stood his ground, ankle deep, against the pull of the undertow and she was drawn out deeper as the sand was dragged from around his feet with the tide. He hesitated. But when another wave brought her closer, she touched him, and he let go.
That night, he went with her to her world, where his breath didn't matter. Feeling safe in her cool embrace, the ocean welcomed him with a depth of promise and for a while he lost himself in trusting her. But the deeper they went, the dizzier he became. Dizzy with the pressure of the deep. His need to breathe returned with an urgency that frightened him and when she saw this, she let him go, seeing him safely to the surface.
She nodded as he started saying, "you answer questions I haven't yet asked."
"When you're ready, I'll return," she promised, with a deep sadness in her voice.
"How will I know when that is?" He asked aloud.
But she was gone.

WAKE UPP!! That's what I heard though,in the most awkward, annoying, absolutely rebellious,definitely violence provoking tone you would have ever heard. But its the usual morning ritual.. I doubt in all my time I will ever get accustomed to mornings. See I am more of the nocturnal type..sunshine just makes me squint, and anything before 10 is dawn for me. Maybe its is not the mornings I have a problem with, on the contrary its that I love mornings too much and sleeping in the morning is bliss..and by the time you get up ,the rest of the world is all awake and active and you can just get into the thick of the action, OR you would have to get up early and see people getting to work or doing what they do best all in the lingering mood of the reluctance to wake up, which further heightens your reluctance of course.

Fighting the feeling, a battle rages within me..to get up or not to that is the question, a cantankerous interpretation of Shakesphere's words, and I assume that we were talking about one and the same thing. The battle rages on... me sitting on the edge of the bed crouched as much as I can. My whole body,each part relying on the other in a most gracefully symbiotic way,each trying to gain small amounts of energy from the other in every proven scientific method possible, osmosis and Einstein knows what! This takes longer than you can imagine, noo it's not momentary but a carefully planned sychronised process, where if one could see underneath the skin to the muscles and superimpose the minor progressive retractions of the ligaments with what the mind is trying to achieve; is an incomaprable visual display in its whole.

Finally a decision is arrived at, the mind forces the body to move, the first movement it has made, which takes alot of persuasion and will power. The body still tries to fight it though,using the mind, pumping in images of nice dreams, relaxed venues and stupefying provocations by relaxing specific parts that give you immense pleasure when rested -all boiling down to one word sleep!The mind fights back reasoning that it is imperative to carry on forward as there are things to be done, ignoring which, could have dire consequences. The body sees and feels the logic necessity in the reasoning though it rather have its way. The mind won today. Occasionaly however the body does have its way, but thats one of those days that when the battle goes on for long and the next eruption of consciousness makes me realise what a grave mistake it was and I have to make up the lost time by doing things smoothly but at double the speed so as to portray an image where no one realises that it was those days when the mind lost!

Well who cares what anyone thinks? But the thing is that it shows weakness, a lack of responsibility in matters that have consequences, such as your boss perceiving it as ignorance of dedication to work. Heeey I want to say sometimes, when he calls my excuse of having overslept lame, its more than you think, I fought it but unfortunately cosmic forces were not in my favour today, the body won! Have you thought about how on every, or more realistically most days, the mind wins!I dont think you should say lame that it lost today. Give me a break, I think I deserve it. Between you and me, its only a desperate man's last attempt to save his last hint of dignity, no justifications whatsoever.

The body moves forcefully, like a prisoner being dragged into his cell. To the bathroom, the mind says - "If only I can get the hands to touch water and water to touch the face, my task would be over". The mind has always believed that the universal solvent is miraculous, the molecules of the solvent containing inherent power far greater than any, not of energy but the exceptionally incongruous power to impart sense and to generate realisations. For when the molecules touch those of the skin especially the face, where a love has existed for ages, life is born. The interaction is one, unparalleled by its simplicity, but in direct comparison to two souls making love. Once the mind manages the contact, sparks fly and the body comes to life hearing the first sounds of the morning and comprehending them,the experience further enhanced by the mind.

Now they work together, the battle over, peace reigns and the day begins in full swing....but not until the next day when history repeats itself...the same turmoil continues...wonder who will win tomorrow!

Devan’s day began before dawn. Shivering with an icy pleasure, he would wash himself by the well and clad in his dhoti, sit down by the table lamp with a cup of steaming tea. A stack of paper by his side, he would write. Often he would continue what he had written the previous night. Sometimes he would be starting afresh and sometimes, planning something new. If he still saw the cobwebs in his eyes, he would light up the day’s first beedi. And then he would write. On occasion, his bin overflowed. Most of the time however, the need was not felt. With the first rays that pierced the coconut groves, he would get up and stare at the golden. His wife would wake up any moment and get him his second cup.

And then he would write some more. This was the hardest part of his day. His children would wake up. His youngest son, Vishnu, would cry about having to drink milk and then about school and then about having a bath, all of which Devan shut his ears to. He would clutch his pen and think about the serenity outside, only to hear the incessant scraping that the sweeper woman made. The swish of the newspaper through the air, its thud on the gravel, the screeching pressure cooker, the fisherwoman haggling with his neighbour, his wife shouting at him to go out and buy some fish, pots and pans and other kitchen noises; he would give up when his father woke up and switched on the radio for the morning news. Forty five years old, Devan liked to believe he had everything he measured life by. He pursued his poetry with a vigour that matched his khadi clad, chain smoking days in Kerala University. He also had a job which paid for his wife and two sons. Reporting for a Malayalam daily, he liked to say that he liked his job.
After a day of ceaseless discussions and driving in the unremitting Thiruvananthapuram heat in his dark blue scooter, he would go to the Press Club and have his whisky, neat and in solitude, and smoke his beedis. Only when the photographers and reporters from his office started singing would he get up from his regular table - in the darkest corner of the bar. And then, disgusted at not being drunk, he would leave for his house.

His wife would be chopping onions or tomatoes or beans in front of the TV, both eyes on the soap, leaving Devan wondering whether she was crying for the dying grandmother or if it were the onions. His dinner would already be on the table, cold and closed with a stainless steel plate. He would dig into the rice, make balls with it and the red fish curry and down them with water. After rinsing his mouth, he would sit at his favourite place by the table lamp and stare at the recycled sheets of paper, the jingles boring holes into his skull. Sometimes his patience would not last and muttering, he would stomp to the bed. And when it did, and the TV was switched off, he wouldn’t write a lot, the alcohol weighing his eyelids down.


At his father’s house in Nagercoil, a smaller town to the south, Devan had stopped trying to find out when his day started. He did not know when he slept and there was no clock in the room to find out when he woke up. Sometimes he did not even know when he was awake and when he was sleeping. And even if he was aware of it when he woke up, it was difficult to let another person know. After a few weeks of trying, he had given up. Sometimes his wife would chance upon him and see his open eyes and make him a cup of tea. Perching him up on pillows, she would hold up the cup. Once in a while, he would remember that he was hungry or that he had to go to the toilet, and would mumble for his wife. Occasionally he had to burble for a few hours, but usually she came in a few minutes, from one of her sewing classes, the end of her sari tucked in, to shift him on to his wheel chair. His wife had stopped trying to speak to him a long time back. The classes and the tailoring paid for the children.

Whenever, he knew he was awake, Devan would stare at the ceiling and at the fan and the cobwebs. Sometimes he would gaze in the direction of a ceramic Taj Mahal in a glass case on the shelf, a relic from his wedding. Nobody knew whether he was looking at it, because his eyes were always wet. The confusion was compounded because the shelf also contained his books and his unfinished sheets. Everyday, some time before night, his youngest son, now twelve years old, would sit beside him and talk. About school, about his new friends and teachers and about football. He would also tell his father about his grandfather’s paddy field and the price of fish. Devan rarely replied to his son. His eyebrows would flicker when he heard something interesting. Sometimes a solitary drop would brim over and hide itself in his hair. Now and then, Vishnu would catch a smile on his father’s face, especially if he were talking about school.
At night, Devan would gaze at the darkness, willing himself to go to sleep. Often, his thoughts would drift on to his table lamp and his dark blue scooter and his own dark corner at the bar. Still awake, he would think of that night, five years now, after enduring his whisky for longer than usual, he had crashed into a parked Fiat. Paralyzed from neck down.

And sometimes he would think of his poetry. And when he did that, he would long for that fisherwoman’s voice.