Just someone

Her hands trembled, shook uncontrollably as she picked up her tooth brush to clean what was remaining of her dentition. She slowly looked up to see her reflection in the mirror. A tired, weary wrinkled face looked back at her. Her hair had greyed, thinning out, like wilting leaves on an autumn tree. She had to squint her eyes, to see more clearly, fighting with the cataract, that was slowly blinding her. Her figure was stooped, hunched, her spine unwilling, and unable to bear her weight. The weight of a lifetime of sorrows. 85 years. She hadtrouble moving about, shuffling a few steps, stopping every now and then for breath. Her lungs were failing her. Her breath came out in gasps, every breath was a struggle, even the abundantly available oxygen was playing hard to get with her. She wore a light sky blue
wispy cotton dress, flimsy white lace adorning the edges. Adamant stains marred the front half of her dress, contrasting her once affluent days and present poverty. As she stood by the single broken window, she saw a long unwinding path, reminiscent of her life. Moth eaten curtains shielded her from the sharp rays of the afternoon sun. A gentle breeze was her only visitor. She lived alone. All that was left of her life was what she saw in that mirror. An old woman, who
had been someone’s mother, someone’s daughter, someone’s wife.
She looked at the photo by the side of her bed. She saw a young girl, about 25 years happy as only a new bride could be smiling at the camera, standing in front of a quaint little church, a glimpse of pure white against a background of autumn leaves, and dark angry clouds in the sky. How well she remembered that day. She could smell the sanctity of the church, the yellow roses, each one perfect, a miracle in itself,that lined the aisle that day as she walked towards her future, and her dreams. She could hear the whispers, the blessings, the roar of the thunder, as she stood by his side to take her vows. Tears rolled down her cheeks, as she relived her moment of pride, joy,
trepidation, enthusiasm all blending into the one single second when She said ‘I do’.
But it was all gone now. It was the war. Her husband, the one she promised to live in joy and sorrow was dead. Killed. He had died, a
soldier’s death, they had told her. Death was absolute, how could it be graded? Soldier or not, he had died, leaving her alone to pick up
the pieces of the life that was left behind, in a country that barely survived after the war. The war. It wasn’t fair.
Her thoughts drifted on to the day she never thought would cause her so much pain. She had waited expectantly for it. Nine months pregnant, blissful and happy, little did she know that the child in her was no more. Her child, her very own flesh, and blood, his and hers, never lived to even see his mother. He died as he was being born, a fresh still born. She had held the little fellow, wrinkled, tiny and bony in her arms, as she sobbed, willing him to breathe, willing him to nurse her breasts. But he didn’t. His life consisted of less than a second. He had lived for less than a second. She had still been someone’s mother.
The whistle on the kettle blew, a jarring noise, bringing her back to reality. An old lady in a broken down cottage, by the creek. Miles
away from civilization. She preferred it that way. Human contact pained her. It reminded her that she was someone’s wife. Someone’s mother. Someone’s daughter.  The wounds had never healed, they never would. Time only helped in acceptance. Time only helped her wait for the day that she too, would be gone. But the wounds were still fresh and raw. Gaping. Bleeding. Like the ones that killed her husband. Blood oozing from his flesh, his eyes screaming silently in unbearable pain. Bone sticking out, him lying in a pool of his own blood. No one
had helped. No one could. He was clean, saintly, and at peace when they brought him home. But she had heard. That was war, to her.
She poured herself a cup of tea and sat herself down on her old creaky rocking chair. It had blue cushions, warm and comfortable, that smelt like an old lady, musty and sweaty. A little round table sat beside her, an oil lantern reeking the smell of kerosene, which she would turn on as the sun set. A clock ticked away the minutes, as she waited, patiently. She did not know for what she was waiting.
Silence and calm descended. It was days before they found her. An old lady, wilted, shriveled, and dry, sitting in her old creaky rocking chair, by the side of the broken window, moth eaten curtains shielding her from the sun, a single perfect yellow rose in her hand, a blissful smile on her face.

The Tam Brahm Food Conundrum

Everyone is obsessed about food. Everyone. Even tam brahms.The special thing about tam Brahms is that we don't have the multitude of choices that, say, a mallu Christian has, when it comes to food. It's either curd rice, or any other rice, mixed with curd. Curd has to be ubiquitous. And of course, there are many taboos, belonging to the clan as such, and then the the quirks of the particular family. But in general, the choice isn't much. Everyone knows it, but want to pretend otherwise
 The discussion regarding what to make for dinner resembles probably a national level cabinet meeting. Involves all members of the family. Anyone not present will be tele invited.
Now to just sample what happens, let's take the example of a house consisting of patti, thatha, amma, appa and two kids. One would be me and the other my brother.

Patti: (usually the one who initiates the discussion) ' Raathiri Ku enna menu'? ( What's the plan for dinner)
The question, or rather the statement is initially met with silence, for everyone is already aware of the outcome.
I  roll my eyes and continue to  read my biology textbook. Brother hasn't even heard the question, he is too busy playing videogames. Thatha decides to go for a walk. Appa,of course isn't there.
Amma says it's too early to decide. So an hour and a half passes.
Scene remains the same, with patti posing the same question. This time, however, she also says that -
neenga ellam enna venum nu sonna dhaane panna mudiyum. ( Only if you all tell me what to make, I can make that) (sorry for the literal translation - but you get the idea)
I decide to  venture into the field. A very bold decision, actually.
Me : What about vengaya sambhar?
Patti : no, today is pradhosham, we can't have onions! Unnaku theriyadha enna? (Don't you know)
Brother and me roll our eyes and resist.
Patti: I will definetly make it some other day. But tell me something for now. Whatever you say!
Brother: okay then why don't you make pizza?
Patti : I don't know how to make that! Besides it's very unhealthy. Full a only maida maavu. Not good for health at all.
At this point, it starts becoming a lecture. Mostly regarding the cons and disasters of fast food. No one listens anymore. But she still continues.
Half an hour later, the scene is still the same. And the menu undecided.
Patti : what should I make for dinner?
Me : what about just sambhar and shenakazhangu curry?
Brother looks and me and gives me a big hug for suggesting his favourite dish!
Patti : yesterday only I made shepankazhangu. Thirippiyum thirippiyum kazhange sapduvela? (Will you repeatedly eat only root vegetables)
Me : okay then. What about more kozhambu? And vendakka curry? ( Buttermilk sambhar and ladies finger)
Patti: actually, that's the menu I decided for tomorrow. You will like taking it to school right?
Me : okay then do whatever you want.
Patti : (breaking into almost hysterical fits) I don't know. I am not modern like you all. Ennaku therinjadhu sambhar rasam curry dhaan. Neenga enna venum nu sonnadhane. Idhulaye ennaku Bp eridum. ( All I know is sambhar rasam and curry. You will have to tell me what to make. This itself raises my BP)
Me : okay make keerai and rasam.
Patti : there is no keerai at home. Why don't you and your thambi go and buy it? I will surely make it then.
Brother and sister suddenly remember that there is a lot of homework pending. And they exit.
Enter father.
Patti to father : nee yaavadhu solluda. Raathiri enna pannatum? ( Atleast you tell me, what shall I make for dinner)
Father ( answer never never never never ever varies) : jeera rasam
Patti : poda. Daily idhaye sollara. Because of you only, my peran pethi get angry with me for making the same thing! ( You say the same thing everyday!)
Me : what about that recipe they showed on TV that day - you made notes and all, can you make that?
Patti and amma in chorus: that's a very complicated recipe, no time now. If you wanted it, you should have told well in advance. We would have been prepared.
Finally everyone gets annoyed, and go forth doing their activities. Patti continues to lament, and then suddenly there is silence.
In the silence that follows, everyone assumes that dinner has been decided.
An hour later, at the dinner table, everyone gathers, quite excited to see what dinner would be. To see the fruit of a very long extended and painful conversation.
Me : patti, what did you finally make? I am very hungry
Patti : I just made curd rice.
My brother let's out a howl. An anguish. What. No!
Brother: I can't have this!
Me : thottukarthukku enna? ( I am still shocked, and believe that there must be atleast a good accompaniment)
Patti : nethikku panna chow chow kootu irukku. And some ericha kozhambu! ( For those who don't know what ericha kozhambu is - it's a 'dish' made by boiling today's sambhar, yesterday's vethakoxzhambu, day before yesterday's kootu, rasam from the day before- you get the drift)
No one has anything to say. No one. Nothing. Dinner if course has to proceed in silence. Fade to silence.
End of act.

Shadows

He walked behind her. The evening sun cast shadows in front of them. Atleast their shadows looked like they were together. Realising the same thing at the same instant, both of them stopped and let their shadows embrace. A sort of vicarious pleasure. If not them, atleast their shadows danced together. Shadows in love. A reflection of the yearning of two souls to be together. Even the silence of the gentle breeze around sounded like howls from the two anguished souls. She gulped, helpless. Just his presence was enough to set free what seemed like a million butterflies in her stomach. She loved the sensation of them fluttering. She wondered if they knew how happy they made her. The thrill of a free fall. Thats what it was. Them, she and him, together, was a free fall. But despite the wretchedness of the situation, they knew they were never meant to be. They would always be oceans apart. Different time zones. On either side of the international date line. If she lived in today, he was already in tomorrow. Their shadows hugged for one last time, and they went their seperate ways. In this universe. But somewhere, in some parallel universe, their shadows never parted from the first embrace, two souls entwined, forever. But not here. But not now. 

Nephromance

I met a nephrologist. She wanted to see my kidneys. As she scanned them, her eyes danced in delight. She said they were longitudinal. Is that the nephro term for beautiful, I asked. She giggled in  flirtatious mirth. She scanned them more, her hands deftly working the probe up and down. She didn't want to let go. They are perfect, she said. And my renal vessels constricted in  lusty fervour. I think my kidneys are in love. With my nephrologist. 

Simply Syphilis

A good friend of mine occasionally and quite affectionately calls me a ‘syphilitic whore’ when she is amused and irritated with me. That is the origin for that phrase. I do not know where she got it from, but it sure does sound cute. Syphilitic whore. If you really think deep and say it aloud, one gets a very warm fuzzy feeling, all the happy centres lighting up in the grey matter. Think about it. It rather defeats the purpose of an insult, don’t you think?
Of course, penicillin killed syphilis, if not the whore. So although syphilis may still exist, and whores are rampant, the two are rarely seen together. Even if they are, they are soon divorced. Stupid penicillin.
See, its very simple. If you have syphilis, you won’t get it again, right? Then what is so bad about syphilis? The only thing it can do in the long run is make you mad. They call it GPI- general paresis of the insane. Whatever. Medical terminology bores me. They are just saying you will go mad. So, that will anyway happen, right? Who isn’t mad? Everyone is. If you have any doubts, go ask Tom Cruise. So why blame poor syphilis for that? Those lovely little curly organisms! How can you be mad at them?
Alternatively, we could think of it this way. Someone is stoic, expressionless, humorless and very sad. Let him see a syphilitic whore, do the business, get them spirochetes into his bloodstream, and up into the csf, wait a couple of years for GPI to set in, and he wont be all that stoic, and expressionless and boring anymore. He would be insane. Or in this case, sane. Sanity and insanity can be interchangeable, right?

A syphilitic whore can never be boring. Whores never bore. Show me one boring whoring syphilis, and I will lend you an arm. Also, bores are never whores. They may rhyme, but they are never the same. Remember that. Whoring bores and Boring whores are virtually nonexistent. Both theoretically, and practically speaking. If anyone says he has seen them, he is hallucinating, and urgently needs syphilitic treatment.
Atleast a syphilitic whore stands a greater chance of bedding Captain Jack Sparrow, than any normal female in the reproductive age group. Whatever. There are many who may consider that to be the biggest achievement in their lives. True story. And please do not be judgmental. Has a whore, or a spirochete, or a syphilitic whore, or any of the above combination ever discriminated in choosing an able, wise recipient? Its always an indiscriminate action, left to chance and the randomness, chaos and entropy of the universe. So, don’t, okay?

Why, it could even be a new religion! New members will be recruited, and the sect shall spread far and wide. It need not necessarily be a vice. And then, the non syphilitic whores will be looked down upon, rejected, stepped and stampeded on, put in concentration camps, and yet the world shall not end. Of course, it will and should be a matriarchal society. Or should it? I wonder what the gender distribution for the SW population is. Whatever. Syphilis rules, either way. Who cares what the gender of the vehicle is. We don’t really bother if the Mercedes Benz is male or female, right? I think the same analogy should apply here.
What if the non syphilitic race becomes extinct? What If there’s a war between the syphilitic and the non syphilitic population? Who will be the fittest? Evolution of the syphilitic whore. In this age, with HIV thronging the limelight, and poor syphilis pushed to the background, these are issues we seriously need to think about.
When I asked a few people what they thought about syphilitic whores, not many could think of an answer. Why, nobody said anything. Nevertheless, it got me wondering. It is a nice question to rape someone’s happiness. Considering I am an excellent candidate for that, this is how I visualize the rape.
Prof: Ma, what do you think of syphilitic whores?
Me: sir?
Prof: Syphilitic whores, ma? What you think?
Me: syphilitic whores, sir?
Prof: Tell me fast, I don’t have all day. < irritated expression >
Me: Sir, actually, it refers to a person who has syphilis… and…
Prof: Ma, I wish you would make up your mind about it. This wont do. Its ridiculous that you know so little. How difficult is the question? Cant you read up and come?
Me: Sir, wont her career be ruined?
Prof: Which book? Which book says that? Give me the reference.
Me:
Warning- The above stunt should be tried out only under highly strict experimental conditions and by people well trained in carrying out such maneuvers. In amateur hands, it can backfire and be potentially hazardous to the very sanity of life. It is a thin line.

Frankly speaking, I cannot imagine a world without them. I mean syphilis. Oh, and of course the whores. Therefore, a syphilitic whore is indeed a rare entity, close to extinction. It is my personal belief that we should do all it takes to save the race. And the next time someone calls you a syphilitic whore, it should make your day, for it’s a compliment! Long live the spirochetes!

Exam Lunacy

Yeah, yeah, exams are stressful for everyone. Be it any subject, any field, any age, gender blah blah blah and so on. But some people go off the grid when dealing with it. I still remember my tenth and twelfth board exams. Terrifying, as they were, minus all the fuss attached to it, parents and teachers really don’t help. And one other person who really doesn’t help is the previous year’s topper, who has his/her face plastered on every other ‘coaching’ centre book/guide. Really don’t understand what the hype is all about. Indians are funny, they will idolize anyone and everyone. All you need to do is get some ‘rank’, and a temple will be built for you.
Scene 1
Place : Outside the examination hall
Time: Before the exam
The area outside the examination hall before the exam usually resembles a fish market. Filled with different kinds of fish. Fish here refers to the variety of students that go to give these exams. One kind appears with the following description- Tall, geeky, nervous, sweaty, soda bottle glasses, with vibhudhi enough to drown one adult male elephant plastered across the forehead, mumbling some last minute ‘extra’ stuff. Can totally pass off for a samiyaar or a guy trying to ward off the voodoo evil. Following him will be his mother- the ever hopeful, the over achieving screechy, high pitched lady who would have spent the last 6 months feeding her son, as if he was going to go in for a world wrestling match. She would be carrying extra idlis, coffee in the sudden emergency that her already overfed hyperexcited, overachieving kid wanted some more, in the few moments before the exam. Last minute- one tiny kumkumam, vibudhi packet will be opened,(Prasad from the deity) as if all that on his forehead, was not enough. Religion/devotion/prayers tend to be rampant at this time and hour. Last minute clarifications will be exchanged between members of the said species, with each member unwilling to part any information which may give him an edge over the other, followed by glaring looks and superficial good luck wishes. I’m surprised these mothers don’t believe in the voodoo stuff. I can totally imagine them piercing needles on miniature dolls resembling their kid’s rival.
There’s another breed, that is usually not visible till the last few minutes before the start of the exam. They are the more experienced ones, who have written the exam before, and who ‘know’ what it is all about. They are visible only to the trained eye, when they waltz into the hall just before the bell rings, with no stationery to write, they don’t mind borrowing, and they don’t mind the fact that they wont know all the answers. This particular set may or may not doze off for a few minutes during the examination, may or may not ask for additional sheets, may or may not stay the entire duration of the exam.

Scene 2a
Place: Examination hall
Time: 3 hours of exam
The first breed of fish will be seen to write feverishly, from the start till the very end. Additional sheets will be flying off the table, ink will run out, hands will start to tremble, as the nerd tries to fill in the sheets with every possible info that is there in his head, even if it isn’t really pertinent to the question. Double colour pens, underlining, highlighting, its surprising the sheets don’t tear with his enthusiasm. He’ll probably write till the end of the day, if they allowed him to. Thank god for time limits. The dude will have about 4 pens of each colour and design, in case the first second and third stop writing. So, what happens when the fourth also runs out of ink? It’s a huge risk that he will have to take! Such a fiasco, that would be! I’m sure he, and his mother would have had nightmares about it. After all, there is only one pen that you can write with at any given point of time. Unless, of course he’s Arjuna the ambidexterous. Even then, two pens would suffice. The most brilliant aspect of this situation is that, he will be extremely unwilling to loan a pen to his fellow mates.

Scene 2b
Place: Outside the exam hall
Everything is quiet. Except for the ocassional chirping of birds and the silent prayers from some obsessive mothers. If it weren’t for the rules, am sure some of them would have organized ‘homams’ and ‘havans’ and all that in that time frame. So that, one more ‘ranker’ is created, and the numerous coaching centres have a field day.

Scene 3
Time : Immediate post exam
Place: Outside the exam hall
The scene is worse than a fish market. Mothers, mothers, mothers everywhere! And in some cases occasional fathers. Each one twisting his/her neck, looking at every guy/girl who comes outside the hall, trying to gauge from their facial expressions as to how tough/easy the exam was, and mentally fitting in that same guy/girl in their list of ‘good’ students, so that they have a rough idea as to how their own offspring would have fared. It kind of resembles the yester year scene at the airport when one goes to receive a would be son in law at the airport (when going abroad was rather prestigious) Each mother probably carrying an imaginary placard that says- “topper”.
Mr/Ms top ranker walks out, sees his/her mother ‘knowing’ glances are exchanged between them and they silently move out. For of course, its kind of rude to say you’ve done well in the exam. The fashion is that you say you’ve done terribly. And act surprised when the results come out. Like those Miss Universe/world paegents. Cover your mouths, and squeal. Those types. So, after the exam, Mr / Ms top ranker usually say that they are going to fail. Despite the vibhudhi,the prayers, the different colour pens, and all the other paraphernalia.

The Facebook Bug

Long long ago, I was a facebook fan. Now I hardly use it, for in my opinion, it has failed to serve its purpose for me. Not that I really had a direction and purpose, and aim and all that when I signed up for it.But generally speaking, on the whole, it bores me to death. I don’t have anything to say to people I hardly ever talk to, no photos to upload, no funny comments to pass, and don’t find the incessant need to let every Tom, Dick and Harry in the world know what I’m doing every minute of my day.
So, I pondered long and hard, and studied the users- namely my friends, and the friends of friends on my list, and realized I could neatly categorise them. Of course, there will be resemblance to living characters in this categorization, and it isn’t coincidental. But I mean it in good humor, rather wry, I should say. So request it to be read in a similar tone.

Well, the first category of people include the newly weds, the newly engaged, and the to be couples. They’d look and appear normal to the naked eye, but then suddenly there would appear a change in the relationship status to “ is single” , followed by “in a relationship” , to prove that nothing was going on before he/she met her/him. Yeah right, like we don’t know. And then there would be atleast 30-40 comments depending on his/her popularity showering with compliments/comments and the likes. Soon to appear would be “ is engaged”, with the photos of the beaming couple. And again, the same people would say the same things, in slightly different ways- “Congrats! You guys look so cute!”.The only difference being in the differential placement of commas and fullstops.And not to mention, the winkey smileys. ;) The flowchart repeats itself a month or two later after the wedding. And the honeymoon snaps. So, I have two pertinent questions here.
1. I don’t have much experience personally, but my cousins have got married, so I’ve seen weddings in close quarters. How in the world do you find time to update the fb status during the wedding or the preceding/following days?
2. As a friend, and well wisher, am I required to wish/congratulate on very status change- from ‘is single to ‘is honeymooning’? What is the norm, here? How many times is normal, and when does it become jobless/stalking?

Moving on to the second category, are the newly emigrated desis in the US of A, and other cleaner neighbourhoods of Mother Earth. They simply cant get enough of the cleanliness there, I presume, because all we are made to see is pictures of them stating- “Me in front of the tower”, “Me at some waterfall”. I suppose you get my drift. Sometimes, there are empty pictures of valleys, and flowers and rivers. By empty- I mean bereft of people. Even the titles of the albums are predictable. Everyone has an album called “fun times” or fun tymes”, “random” etc.

The third, the most irritating category is the ones who play Farmsville. I get nightmares because of Farmsville. “ A dolphin has been found abandoned, do you want to adopt it?”
Really now. That ranks priority one on my task list for the day. Adopting a virtual dolphin that some other virtual member abandoned on a virtual universe. Perfect start. I am sure there are other equally irritating games, but I’m quoting the most obvious.
Other nauseating tools include the ‘virtual poke’ that has been used, misused and abused so much that its like chalk on the blackboard. They have died down, a lot, though since the conception. But some people still stick to it. I don’t know why.
Posting Youtube videos is another fad. Especially of babies doing weird things. The video of some baby doing a dance for “hips don’t lie” is still doing the rounds. And the absolutely unimaginative, predictable clichéd ‘Awww’ that follows soon after!

The fourth is the ones afflicted with a serious disease/affliction. The ones who update their status every other minute. Everything they do, remotely funny, or interesting is up in a jiffy!Ever since I saw a Criminal Minds episode that dealt with a virtual stalker who used fb status updates to murder women, I cringe at every seemingly useless piece of information that is unwittingly put up. Like they say- “the internet never forgets”.

There is another set that deserves special mention. Posting extremely obvious statements on someone’s wall, and pretending to be the only ones who understand the ‘secret’. People aren’t dumb, you know. Besides, when all the girls suddenly say ‘red’ or ‘blue’ or some other color, its pretty obvious what you’re talking about/or what you want the other person to think of it. I can almost hear the giggles when I read such threads. There would be a discussion of a rather private matter on a public domain, a lot would have been said, and then suddenly one party would realize and say- “sent you a mail!”. Duuh. Couldn’t you guys have done that before? Heard of Chat engines? Gtalk/YM etc?

Well, since I unknowingly chose to be a medical graduate, and decided to stay in India, it follows that I do not fall under any of the aforementioned categories. So I really don’t know what to do on facebook. So I open the page everyday, look at some colours, and sign out.