Shail’s Nest

-  a true story of  blog addiction

Being away or rather forced to be away, from the net for long gave me chance to muse about the blogosphere and the hold it has on us bloggers. Is Cloud Nine when you get a comment to your blog, the Indianhomemaker a passionate blogger herself, had once wondered. Hmm… I wouldn’t go as high as that, as Cloud Nine is otherwise reserved in my case, but would certainly assign it a Seventh Heaven.

How addicted are we really to the blogosphere and blogging?? I bet each of us has a story to tell and here is mine. I might have been slightly more than a year into blogging when this happened. Tell me if you can beat this one.

Those were Ancient Times when all the members of a household had to share one lone computer amongst themselves. Usually there was a tyrant who monopolized the PC and then there were the oppressed that had to go by his/her rules. In our home, the senior son was the (gentle) tyrant who owned the PC and with the iron hand in the velvet glove approach threw us, the oppressed ones, scraps of computer time. The junior son and I still recall the dreaded phut-phut-phut of a slowing mo-bike followed by the ‘ttttang’ of the opening gate which sounds heralded the return of the Tyrant PC Owner and filled our (respective) hearts with dismay.

Every dark cloud has a silver lining and mine had a super silver lining. Soon the senior son got hold of an Engineering degree and a job which thankfully took him to far away Bangalore. The junior son as a certified computer game buff with the monster Board Exams to contend with was not qualified for automatic transfer of ownership of said lone PC. Dad aka the Lord and Master being out of station did not enter the equation at all. So Mom got the honors and oh boy, was she thrilled.

Of course from then on it was blogs and comments, burnt food scraped off vessel and served, blogs and comments, burnt food scraped off vessel and served, blogs and comments…. Oh well, you get the drift. And whenever the Writing-A-New-Post Devil had Mom in its vise-like grip and she was in no mood to serve even ‘burnt food scraped off vessel’ the junior son obligingly and happily ordered take-away dinners. He and I surely and definitely were getting to be fat, were headed towards getting fatter and seemd to have our eyes firmly set on the goal of fattest when…. But that’s a different story. Let me not (infamously) digress.

One day the junior son had to go on a school trip. He needed a bag for his things. The L & M as the Keeper of Bags and Other Sundry Things and also The Mighty One With Answers To Everything was consulted over the phone. Go and look in the basement room, we were advised, you ought to find something suitable there.

Now a word about this basement room: It is the kingdom of the Lord and Master. He hoards all useless things that should have been thrown out long back essential things there. Mysteriously so, after each ‘adukkiveppu’ (tidying up) when some things are reluctantly discarded by him, the room looks fuller than ever.

The evening before the day he had to leave, the junior son, as is the habit of children anywhere, was sprawled in front of the TV as if he had all the time in the world. I prodded him to go find a bag and pack his things. Being a Meanie Mom unlike the Goddesses that are the Bharatiya Mummy-jis who make me sick even in their doddering old age fetch and carry for healthy adult sons, I want my children to do things on their own and not bother me from doing my own thing. He reluctantly got up and went down the stairs. Soon after, I heard him call me.

“Ammmaaaaaaaa”

I was alarmed. A spider, my sixth sense told me. Meanie Mom or not, when a child calls in distress, a mother has to respond, even if her instincts tell her there is some creepy-crawly which she herself is so terrified of involved somewhere in all this. Besides, the junior son is equally if not more scared of spiders than I am. In such a situation, a mother has no option but take on the role of Jhansi ki Rani and enter the battlefield.

Years back I had vanquished and chased out of the house with a handy broom and a most determined look, a slimy tree frog, on seeing which my usual habit would otherwise have been to go eeeeeeeek and make myself scarce due to their habit of jumping on you when least expected (not that expecting it to jump would make it any better) from where they sat on the wall, at just the right psychological moment to scare you out of your wits end, all because it had dared scare the senior son who was at the time all of two years old.

“Ammaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!” the call came again more urgent now.

“I am coming!” I replied in a hoarse whisper.

I quickly went down the stairs trying to make as little noise as possible when a new thought struck me. It could be a mouse. I almost scurried back up the stairs. But mothers, even meanie ones, cannot leave kids calling for help, stranded in basement rooms, to face fearful monsters on their own.

“I am coming!!” I repeated.

Even as I descended, my body was poised for instant flight back up the stairs in case of emergency. These mice are such stupid creatures, just like lizards are. They make straight for those who least want them (me, for instance) in their vicinity.

On reaching the room, the junior son pointed to a Gargantuan Spider which was the spitting image of the one the senior son, ably assisted by me, had dealt with on a previous occasion. It eyed us malevolently from atop a trunk, sending shivers down my spine. Even as we watched in fascinated horror, it disappeared among the maze of trunks and other paraphernalia, all of which are an indispensable part of an army man’s accumulated wealth luggage.

What were we the Scaredy (of spiders) Cats to do now?? Not prepared to venture into spider infested territory, we gave the room a cursory glance and decided that no appropriate bag was available.

Now we had to get back to the Lord and Master of the basement room (and of course the whole house as well) and apprise him of events. We closed the door hoping the spider wouldn’t take any cues form Mary’s little lamb and follow us back up the stairs.

The junior son went back to lolling in front of the TV while I walked back to my room. Slipping into the chair in front of the computer, I picked up the cell phone lying on my table and called the Lord and Master. I listened to the phone go triiiing triiing as I open my web page.

The L & M promptly picked up the phone at the other end.

“Hello darling” I said.

“We looked in the cellar room, you know…”

“Yeah..?” he asked, “Find any bag there??”

My eyes were on the computer screen, one hand on the mouse clicking away. I smiled to myself reading the latest comment and formulated an answer in my mind……. and I heard myself answer the L & M,

“No darling. There are no blogs in the cellar room”

Oh well…

When it rains it pours and how!

My woes started with the modem going kaput. What can be as disastrous as that for a blog addict?? I did not go into shock immediately that happened because my buddy Airtel gprs connection on my cell phone was there as standby while the BSNL people got their act together… or so I thought not realizing what Machiavellian thoughts Airtel had. Once it knew that the modem (BSNL) had conked out for good, Airtel, the traitor *&%$**#@ started showing its true colors. It slowed down to a pace slower than a snail’s, taking ages to open pages (wow that rhymes) which till then it had opened in a jiffy, all sweetness and light.

Sigh, there was nothing for it but wait…  ages for those pages to open and hope for the best from BSNL.

A new modem comes the very next day, but as luck would have it I couldn’t get connected in spite of it. After frustrating calls to and fro and some resetting and stuff, something wrong with the cable, the BSNL people conclude. We’ll have to dig up and find out. With the weekend looming in sight, there is nothing for it but to wait for Monday. Oh well…

Come Monday and no one turns up. On enquiry it is found that the whole lot is busy at an emergency that has sprung up after some lines had burned down after the Attukal Pongala festival. Oh well…

Tuesday no one turns up either. How could they??? The BSNL office is almost empty with the hartal against the petrol price hike. No buses and autos plying you see. Oh yes, we Mallus take hartals very seriously you know. So it is more waiting in the anvil for me. Oh well….

At last the workers turn up on Wednesday and start digging the road in front of our house. Phew, looks like the light at the end of the tunnel is going to be visible soon, I think to myself. They change the cable and say, “Madam, try now” But no, Madam still cannot connect to the net. Ohh well…

Airtel GPRS meanwhile is chuckling and trying to play Censor Board (or Moral Police??) picking and choosing pages for me from those I try to open. For some strange reason it seems to think Facebook is where I need to be and promptly opens it each time, but not those others I want to see. Oh well…

So now I call the BSNL helpline, they check things, reset everything and arrive at the conclusion that something seems to be wrong at their Exchange. It will be rectified by evening, they assure me. Oh well…

Late evening we are connected to the net and the Lord and Master and I are ecstatic. Errrr…. The L & M merely looks relieved and goes to check his mail while I am ecstatic. Now I can have n number of pages open and start reading and commenting on blogs.

Did you think it was over?? Oh no Siree, it wasn’t. If you are a regular here at Shail’s Nest, you should by now know that any story of mine doesn’t get over till about a minimum of 1200 words have been written and so far it has only reached 553.

The next day I am at my favorite place, in front of my laptop and have about a dozen pages open. I am blissfully lost in reading when in the background I hear some sounds and out of the corner of my eye see flashes of light. Not Diwali yet, I think to myself, then why the splutter and sparks??

Sparks?? OMG!!!!! SPARKS???!!! I rush out to check its source. Everything is quiet in the lane just like on any other lazy afternoon. The partly burnt coconut leaf touching the electric post is the only thing to indicate otherwise. Oh no… Looks like a short circuit and a power failure. Rushing back inside I find the fan whirring and heave a sigh of relief.

Ahh… let me get back to my blogs. I seat myself in front of my laptop. Something seems different. No warm and friendly little red, orange and green lights blinking welcomingly at me from my right. Egad, the modem is dead yet again?? Hmmm no. It seems the converter was not converting current any longer and had decided instead  by its non-converting ways to convert me into a depressive maniac. I was back to square one. Oh well….

I call up the BSNL people again. “Yes Ma’am. We will check tomorrow” Sigh, back to the Machiavelli of an Airtel and its moral policing ways. Grrr……

I don’t bother with the net the next morning and instead prefer to delve deep into The Color Purple by Alice Walker. By noon the BSNL people turn up with a new converter. The little red, orange and green lights on the modem dance once again. Finally and hopefully I am back in circulation for the time being. And no, I am not keeping my fingers crossed as that would greatly inconvenience the tap-dancing of my fingers on the keyboard. But tell me honestly people, what exactly are the chances that everything that can possibly go wrong with a connection should/could go wrong one after the other in this manner??

I am lotus

A bloom in the mud

Rooted in mire

Untainted and pure

Fragrant and bright

Rosy pink and shades of white

I am lotus

Divinity

Fertility

Sacred symbol of triumph

Creation and rebirth

For a thousand years patiently I wait

And when woken, regenerate…

Yet…

In the freezing cold I shrink and shrivel

When the Sun sets I droop, sink and drown

And in the darkness die

A thousand deaths…

I am lotus

Magnificent blossom

In whom the world delights

But…

Entrenched in the muddy swamp

Immobile in my assigned space

My joy is woven inextricably

Eternally

With the inaccessible one

Celestial traveler of the skies

As his rays caress each dawn

I am reborn

In bliss each petal unfolds

And I live once again…

- Shail Mohan (Feb 2007)

I was born in an age when it was assumed by the general majority that it was quite okay if the man hit his wife occasionally (all for her own good) or even on a regular basis for her ostensible ‘mistakes’ like putting too much salt in the curry or not serving the tea at that right temperature.  Ohh he has got a temper the ladies of the house would whisper in awe scurrying to do his bidding making sure they did it his way. They, the women, never thought anything was too amiss if the man roared in anger or slapped or sent the plate of food flying because he found a tiny stone in the rice. They only stood there scared hanging their head in shame, trying to be that perfect representation of all-suffering womanhood.

I have had the misfortune to have had a ringside view to many such incidents in my childhood. Of course not just such mild ones, but also ones where yanking of hair and slapping hard enough for teeth to get dislodged not to mention black eyes and bruises all over the body and such were common. It happened all around me. It seemed a part of life. The women carried on as usual, injuries and all, and the men, some pillars of society, others so mild mannered and soft-spoken that one could scarce believe that there had been a tornado raging inside their house the previous night with frightened children witnessing horrifying scenes or worse, being at the receiving end of well aimed kicks and blows.

Sometimes alcohol was the reason, but some men didn’t need any such stimulant to fly off the handle and start physically abusing their partner and frightening the children out of their wits. An imagined slight from someone in her family was enough a pretext to start the show. People not directly involved either whispered among themselves in sympathy or laughed in derision as it wasn’t happening to them. No one interfered; it was after all a part of married life, a woman’s accepted lot. From the illiterate to the educated memsahibs, they all took it in their stride.

Even as a child, my blood pressure shot up when I witnessed such scenes of violence. I longed to barge in and give a piece of MY mind to the bullies and their pliant victims. My blood boiled in anger and roared in my ears. I clenched my fists in anger as my heart raced. I so wanted the women to object to what was happening, hit him back and throw him out of the house. I wanted the women to stand up and look the perpetrator in the eye and say, “No, you will not!” None of them did of course. Some of them groveled trying to please their Lord, others stood dumb, some answered the questions he hurled but got hit anyway, others argued or even abused in return which then became a free for all. But none of them stood up straight looked the man in the eye and said, “No you will not!”

I brooded long and hard about it. The unfairness of it ate my insides even as a child. How can someone use his brute strength this way?? Wasn’t his adult partner a human being worthy of respect?? Did adults settle things in this manner?? It was not even an equal way of settling things. One of the partners was not allowed to hit back, or defend herself. No one helped the victim of domestic violence and she had to carry on as if this nothing untoward had happened, as if she somehow had deserved it. People, including the woman herself excused such behavior as temporary aberration, the effect of stress at the work place, the temporary effect of alcohol some such balderdash. And lets not even look at what people said if the woman had done something ‘wrong’ in the eyes of society, in which case she was supposed to have ‘deserved’ it! The worst one of them all was the argument put forward by the suffering woman herself, “I was somehow the reason for this”

Were humans allowed to hit each other citing stress and alcohol as reason?? Did adults settle things by punching the other?? Was that the law of the land?? Then how come violence at home by the husband on his wife is condoned and accepted as normal?? And why were the women taking it all meekly?? My child brain could never understand. If we the children had a fight, one or other of the parents in the neighborhood would step in and threaten us with punishment and warn us to settle our disputes amicably. If siblings had fights parents punished them. Then how come it was okay for the man to punch his wife for something she had done or not done??

Why do some women take abuse whether physical or verbal?? There are a lot of reasons perhaps, like lack of financial security, dependence on the spouse, to keep the home intact and unbroken for the children, lack of support to move out and set oneself up, fear of ostracism from society et al. But even where these are not applicable people do stay in abusive relationships. Is it a matter of low self-esteem?? Or the misplaced belief that she can set things right, the love of the victim for the supposed dependence of the perpetrator of the violence on her at other better times??

What my ears and eyes and brain gathered from all around made man as a gender fall down several rungs in my young eyes. Anyone who used brute strength to settle things with his partner was not a worthy human being I decided all those years back. I looked (and still do) at such men with disdain and contempt. They were lower life-forms than the lowest of worms in my eyes.

Moreover, I decided, when I grew up and got married, I was NOT going to take any such behavior from the man I would marry. I had my argument ready, “You wanna hit?? How about hitting the concrete wall over there if you have the guts??!” No economic consideration or ‘for the sake of children’ argument was going to work with me. If ever it happened to me, I was going to walk out and make my life on my own, however poor I was going to be.  I was going to be the change I wanted to see. If each of us made our own life an example of what we believed in we wouldn’t have to go far to have done our bit.

All this was so long ago. But I look around and see things haven’t changed all that much. It is true that earlier police wouldn’t register a case against the husband if the wife was a victim of domestic violence. Things have changed since in the legal sense. But reality is something else. The law does help. A change in the attitude of people towards domestic violence is necessary. Yet, part of the answer to this problem lies in the way girl children are raised. Teaching her some self-respect, instilling self-esteem and making her self reliant may lessen the problem to some extent, only to some extent. Violence has to be condemned unequivocally at all levels by everyone concerned. What if it is happening inside the four walls of the house next door??!! Bell bajaana hi hai!

This is my entry for the Indusladies International Women’s Day Blog Contest

I now tag MRC, Pal and Sandhya. and since an extra one won’t hurt, my sis Shivaja too.

I woke up to a beautiful morning today. There was a nip in the air. Once I was done with preparing breakfast I walked out to the front yard and looked up at the sky. The clouds looked like fluffy cotton wool against the beautiful blue sky. I decided to get my camera and take some pictures. You wanna come?? I asked the dog. She did not give me a reply. She did not even look up at me. Ok, have it your way, I said. I walked up the stairs and was soon clicking away. The bare branches of the Kani konna (cassia fistula) tree looked a promising subject set against the sky and clouds.

A couple of clicks and I was looking around for more subjects. I homed in on the leaves of the tree (of whose name I am ignorant) in the front yard and clicked some more.

Enough, I decided, time to go down and get on with the days work. As I turned I found someone sitting majestically like a matriarch keeping a protective eye on the littlest of her wards. Her little pink tongue was out and her ears in their watchful mode. The dog, who had acted pricey when I had invited her to accompany me, had quietly come up the stairs and was now sitting at some distance taking in all that was happening with a proprietary air. She probably wanted to keep an eye on me and make sure I did not get into any mischief while her Master was away.

On seeing her and the regal posture for the tiny dog she is, I burst out laughing, my habit at most things she does. I don’t think that she likes it. I mean to be fair, who would when someone starts cackling like that at whatever you do??! She didn’t blink an eye though, just looked away even more majestically, giving the royal cold shoulder. I readied my camera. This majestic look, I had to document. But even as I clicked, the stupid dog that she is (which is why I call her Stupidity), she got up, in a hurry to leave.

I mean what is it with her?? Who does she think she is that she has to run off each time I ready the camera. Most times I end up clicking her rump. Was she really camera shy or offended that I had laughed at her?? Anyway, I missed getting a picture of her impersonating a matriarch and had to be content with one of her getting up to leave.

You bet I was pissed off. I ran after her, but not too fast as to go tumbling down the stairs and end up like Humpty Dumpty who I hear couldn’t be put together again. I found her eventually, sitting on the steps. I aimed the camera. I was set on taking her picture, whether she liked it or not. You are not going to believe this, the dog got up again all ready to run. Oh no you don’t doggie!! I held her down firmly with one hand and clicked with the other. It is not the same, but then I wanted her to know who the boss is hereabouts.

Oh ahh well sigh. It is no fun these days with a sleepy old dog. I miss the good old days when my whole day revolved around needling her and making her run behind non-existent cats by whispering ‘poocha poocha’ and pointing outside (which guaranteed a barking show for the next 10-15 minutes) and also crows by going ‘kaakka’ (getting another 10-15 minutes worth of entertainment). I could also point to the roof and say ‘Olli olli’ to have her run from room to room to try and catch the lizard sitting high up on the wall. If I went ‘Eeeek eeeeek’ in my shrillest voice she came running to rescue me from a mouse which I pretended had got away making her search frantically for it. Tempting her to rush to the kitchen only needed mention of a carrot.

Sigh, all the good old days seem over. When I call her now, she just doesn’t come. I know she is old and can’t come bounding like she used to. But she does not even look up. Is she genuinely deaf or pretending to be to avoid the running around I make her do for a few laughs?? Hmmm…. The vet smiled at me when I asked him. Drop something next to her and see what she does, he said. I took a steel plate walked to her and dropped it right next to her. The noise made me jump out of my own skin, but she herself turned to her left as if she might have heard something. I could hear the Lord and Master guffawing from the next room, having understood why I was hurling plates.

“She did not even turn a hair!” I wailed.

“She probably thought you had dropped a plastic spoon!” he said guffawing louder.

*Sob sob sob*

I tell you, this house is too quiet with her sleeping 24X7 or almost. I do enjoy the quiet and all, but earlier I could talk to her whenever I wanted to. My share of most of the 30000 words (a woman needs to speak 30000 words a day, I am told by reliable sources) was expended on her. But now the 30000 words don’t have an outlet and are left pushing and shoving and bubbling inside me. It is no fun.

I mean I am all ready to talk to her as before. But what fun is it when she won’t listen to me, won’t tilt her head in that cute way of hers in reply?? Do you think I can get my dog a hearing aid??

‘The Nuts’ was what we called ourselves, the ‘we’ here referring not to some teen under graduates or school students, which erroneous conclusion you might have been tempted to jump to, but post graduates, studying in the prestigious Kariavattom University, which lay about 16 kilometers outside the capital city of Trivandrum. The ‘we’ consisted of Nalanda, Darsana, Susan, Padmaja and last but not the least, yours truly.

Getting into Kariavattom University was considered an achievement in itself. The college offered post graduate course in many subjects. There were also those working for their M.Phil degree or for their Doctorates. Predictably, the whole bunch of them, teaching staff to the students (even the non-teaching staff), were the most intellectual, serious and studious looking swarm. Well you don’t have to stop yourself from asking that question that is begging to be asked. ‘What the heck were you doing there?? Who had let you in??’ To tell you the truth, I have wondered a lot about that myself. Anyways…

Out of our batch of ten girls and fifteen boys working for their post graduation in Economics, that year, five of us girls were day-scholars and commuted to college via the college buses that plied from Palayam University Office to Kariavattom. It was a journey of about 45 minutes. We filled in the time jabbering as girls are wont to do. We laughed and joked quite unlike the rest of the ‘intellectual’ crowd in the bus. It would surprise none if I say that I was the one who laughed and smiled the most and also the one who looked least as if she were a student of that esteemed institution.

My friends at least knew how to hide their smiles in the nick of time or to even tell a joke with a straight face. Sadly, I was not so good at this and was left with a grinning face for all to see. Many times have I caught disbelieving and censorious looks directed at us (or to be more precise, moi), on the faces of some of the professors or senior students. They must have felt we did not to care for the sanctity of the revered institution. But seriously, is the resemblance to a stuffed frog such an indispensable part of the ‘intellectual’ look?? How and when has a little laughter and smile hurt anyone in the world?? Not that I know of, not so far anyway.

One fine day, though belatedly, the ridiculousness of our behavior hit us. That is when we decided we were totally nuts. We laughed a good deal over this, when a brainwave hit us to name ourselves after the different nuts. Thus were born The Nuts; Nalanda, the coconut, Susan the areca nut, Padmaja the walnut or had it been Darsana?? Hmm… You must forgive me people; I am getting old you know. Sometimes the memory slips. Ahh.. now I remember, Padmaja was the walnut and Darsana the cashew nut. I became,  errr… ummm… the peanut. Sigh, did I have a choice?? Being the smallest has its drawbacks.

The Nuts spent a lot of time together. We shared our lunch. Nalanda’s lunch box was raided for the fried fish piece and Darsana’s for the prawn/fish pickle. Susan’s mom made us lovely cutlets. Padmaja entertained us with news from the radio station where she sometimes lent voice to the plays. We went to the library together. We shared our notes. We visited each other, had lunch at each others places.

One fine day, we discovered Linda Goodman and her book ‘The Sun Signs’. The book became a sort of gospel for us. We went around asking each of our classmates what their Zodiac sign was and then dived into the book to check if what we knew of the person and what Linda Goodman said tallied. Darsana went one step ahead and asked the HOD  directly what his zodiac sign was while submitting her assignment. When she related this to us the next day, our eyes were fit to pop out.

Once while we, The Nuts, were returning home from college, and as usual chattering nineteen to the dozen, some turn of the conversation made us hit upon a new idea. We wanted to name ourselves after toothpastes. The discussion was in full swing, in slightly raised voices due to the roar of the moving bus, as to who would be which toothpaste. I was eager to stake my claim for the desired brand of toothpaste before someone else did and so without unnecessary procrastination stated my preference in my crystal clear voice.

“I am Close Up!! I am Close up!!” I said, leaving no room for doubt.

As luck would have it, the engine of the bus died just then and instead of the bell like clarity I had intended, my voice came out like a holler.

“I AM CLOSE UP!! I AM CLOSE-UP!!”

All eyes turned as one in my direction as curiosity got the better of even the most pompous among the intellectuals to know who this mysterious Close-up was. I have never been so embarrassed in my life. The Nuts spent the rest of the journey trying not to look at each other as we were bursting to laugh out, which we did as soon as our stop arrived and we alighted.

After our final exams we went to the photo studio to have a picture taken of the five of us. We had also planned on a movie and the only one we were able to manage tickets for was a Tamil one, a family drama. The rest of the womenfolk in the movie hall were seen soaking up their kerchiefs wiping away tears of sympathy for the suffering heroine, while we soaked our kerchiefs too, but with tears of helpless mirth. The absurd theatrical dialogues were enough to start us off on our laughing spree. Though we cursed our misfortune at ending up watching a stupid movie, we were quick to admit that we had never had so much fun as we had that day.

Nalanda now works in a bank. Susan is HOD of the Economics Department of a college in the city. Padmaja is a lecturer in a college in Calicut. Darsana, who had been the first rank holder of our batch and the first to take up employment after studies as lecturer in the S.N. College at Kollam, does not teach now and is a stay-at-home mom. Who is left?? Oh yeah, moi. But, you know about me. I work too… at boring people to death writing blogs. I am proud to say my success rate is very high. I take my work seriously you know!!

- a story

I lay there in the blue light listening to the rhythm of the train. The rest of the passengers were all fast asleep. I couldn’t sleep. It would soon be time for me to disembark. Outside it was raining. The drizzle made faint patterns on the window pane. My journey was about to end. I smiled at the thought. Exhilaration filled me, pushing away the last traces of sorrow that had lingered.

I looked at the time. Before long the train would start its long assiduous crossing across the Ganges. On previous occasions the mere thought of the train snaking its way across the river filled me with dread, but not today. I wondered how the Ganges looked right then. Had the rains changed its color to a murky brown?? It made no difference. In the dark night everything looked black anyway.

The sound of the train changed to a loud clanging one as it entered the bridge spanning the river. It was time. I got up and made my way to the door. With effort I eased the door open, looking out at the dark night. A cool breeze brought some of the rain water in refreshing me. I felt light and free. I wanted to laugh in joy. I was going home, to him.

The everlasting love that had eluded me would be mine in a matter of moments. My Eternal Love, for whom I ached, with an unbearable longing, was waiting for me. The Dark One, for whom I had waited so long, would take me in his arms and never let me go, ever. In them I would find the happiness I had been searching for all my life. I smiled and took a step forward. I was still smiling when the cold water swallowed me.

*                *              *

This is a prologue of a short/long story or novella or even a novel (too ambitious for the lazy moi though!) that I might or might not (the possibilities of this happening are greater) write tonight (no way!), tomorrow, next week/ month/year or in some distant future. An epilogue might or might not come up one of these days. Till such time as that, this remains a flash fiction at 300 words leaving you all free to speculate on the whys and wherefores!

I was caught in the web I know

Love claimed me for its own I know

I made a mistake I know

You are that mistake I know

I gave you my heart I know

Though I shouldn’t have I know

I was helpless I know

It was Destiny I know

We will never be one I know

Not in this life I know

Your hands are tied I know

Yet you love me I know

There is no going back I know

This love is forever I know

Still it is a mistake I know

I shouldn’t have succumbed I know

If I were given another chance I know

I’d make the same mistake once more I know

For you are my soul mate I know

And I am yours forever I know

- Shail Mohan (March 2009)

Update:

On a different note, when the senior son read this post, he sent me this interesting link. Check it out.

If you were to have met me a couple of days back on the Intercity Express and were to surmise from the smug expression on my face that I was content at a job well done, you would not have been far from the truth. The next question that begs an answer would then arise: What exactly had I been up to, prior to boarding said train, to give me that air of euphoria, not to mention the accompanying grin.

I punched him. Yessir I did. I did not think of the consequences. I just balled my fist and let him have it between his shoulder blades squarely. Unfortunately it hadn’t been his nose, but his retreating back my fist connected with. What I really would have loved to do of course was scrrrrratch and leave my mark. Sigh, but one has to take these things philosophically and be content with what one could manage under the circumstances, especially at such short notice. Besides I keep very short nails.

I know at this point you are well and truly baffled. You don’t associate me with violence, certainly not intentional aggression or intent to harm. I may inadvertently biff people on their heads if they aren’t careful about where their head is when a coconut nestles in my palm. But, being willfully violent is definitely not my cup of tea. Someone who wouldn’t say ‘boo’ to a goose is how you can describe me.

Even though I might not say ‘boo’ to a goose, there are a lot of people whom I want boo-ed out of existence in addition to being punched and scratched. The perverts who go by the innocuous name of eve-teasers (teasers, my foot!) and their ilk, who live under the illusion that any woman on the street is his very own to grope and paw and feel up as he wishes, unquestionably makes me wistful about brutal ways of dealing with them.

There I was at the Ernakulam South railway station with the L & M (the Lord and Master for the benefit of newbies to my page) waiting for the Intercity Express, which train the concerned authorities informed us the general public who wished to board it, via the shining red lights of the display board, would arrive on Platform 2 in due course. The train we were told was already running late by about half an hour.

The waiting public on Platform 2 which represented a cross section of the population were definitely a bored lot on that Sunday afternoon. Listless, one could describe them as, except for the hyperactive kids who kept their parents on their toes with demands for Frooti and Lays and such items of interest to them which pattern I scrupulously followed with the L & M, in turn keeping him on his toes and thus a fitter man.

The mood on the platform lifted considerably when the announcer after many false starts of ‘aane ki sambhaavna hai’ (is expected to arrive) finally said with surety that the train had been sighted and was even now thundering towards the platform. As an afterthought the announcer added (one could almost hear the person yawn)….to PLatform 1.

There was an immediate upheaval, and a mad scramble towards the connecting bridge. The entire population on Platform 2 had now to shift base to Platform 1 with bag, baggage, kids and elderly parents in tow. People could be heard cursing, mildly of course, since this being a common occurrence, they weren’t too surprised. But can one really blame the authorities??! How would the poor things inside their offices know which platform was free unless and until they sighted the train on the horizon?? One should be thankful that they did make the announcement rather than let the travelers figure things out for themselves.

Anyways, a sea of individuals now moved as one with but a single thought of boarding the Intercity Express which could be heard and also be seen moving on to the Platform 1. Just managing to reach the right platform, the L & M and I stood on the outskirts of the throng watching the coaches move past. We had reserved our seats unlike many others who had to find their seats as soon as the train came to a halt.

There was a slow trickle of travelers between us and the throng waiting to board the Intercity Express, moving in the opposite side, towards the entrance, probably those that had alighted from some other train. The line was moving slowly due to the rush. A man stood beside me waiting for the ones ahead to move on. Half my mind was on the coaches and the other on the men moving to and fro in front of me. In India, especially in nammude swantham (our own) Kerala, a woman HAS to be aware of the men (age no bar) in crowds AT ALL TIMES. Period. This man paused next to me as if looking at the train and the next instant before you could blink an eye deliberately and coolly pressed his left arm against my breast and walked ahead nonchalantly.

I lunged forward in an instinctive reaction to catch hold of his arm, my imaginary talons out to scratch. My attempt to catch hold of his shirt failed as my hand slipped on his polyester shirt. Frustrated by my failed attempt, I recovered instantly to ball my fist and bring it down with force on his retreating back. Thuddd.

The man went Ohhhh and turned around in a self righteousness manner. The modus operandi in these occasions is to act the injured party. This is a crowd sister (they have the temerity to call you sister!), sometimes people brush against each other. If you don’t like it, stay at home, they go. If ever there is an Oscar to be won, these creeps will win it hands down for the portrayal of the wronged man enacted with such conviction. This creep was no different. He turned with an injured look to find me glaring at him and was in all probability about to get into his spiel.

‘Don’t even try telling me it was accidental’ I cautioned him, my eyebrows knit to their best.

The man opened his mouth and then clamped it shut, swallowing whatever he was about to say for he had seen the more than six feet tall man standing next to me. For a minute I was glad of the L & M’s presence because in Malluland, the general public is notorious for siding with the perpetrator rather than the victim. They smile knowingly and leer among themselves making the victim feel worse for objecting publicly to harassment.

The thud and my terse words all happened in the shortest time that even as the L & M bent to keep the bags he had in both his hands on the ground, the man had disappeared mingling with the crowd. Having no time to lose, we turned and ran to find our coach and seats, with the L & M leading the way with his long legs while I followed at a pace more suited to my shorter ones that carried a huge frame.

My eyebrows were still knit and feelings of ‘how dare he??’ were boiling inside me. Suddenly the realization hit me. I had hit him. I had punched the man who misbehaved with me. Maybe not painfully, but I had retaliated enough for him to be jolted out of his complacency. He would remember me for some time at least.

The thought made me laugh out without care for my surroundings. When the L & M turned around to look for me, he found me grinning from ear to ear. I am sure at that time he was totally confused. First he hears a thud, finds me bristling at a man and then a little later finds me laughing to myself. It is only when we were ensconced in our seats and the train was on its way that I was able to fill him in on the details.

Yeah, I am certainly not one to say boo to a goose. Why should I scare the poor innocent creature anyways?? But I also believe that perverts who cannot respect the sanctity of a human body should be horsewhipped. I believe and passionately so, that no one, absolutely no one has the right to touch another (not even in marriage) without that person’s permission. Sadly, you find fellow perverts standing up for each other here rather than for the one harassed. Crowded buses, trains, temple grounds, platforms, movie halls etc are fertile playground for this depraved scum to grope women for cheap thrills. And the Stupid Society consisting of you and me to which everyone bows in servility asks its daughters to be careful rather than order its sons to keep their hands to themselves.

Ahhh, in case you were wondering and for those who do not know me, I am on the wrong side of fifty and on the particular day this happened was dressed in a salwar-kameez with the all-important dupatta in place, not that it should make any difference to anyone at all what another wears. So much for the ‘she asked for it by her way of dressing’ theory of the Moralist Morons!!

Updated to add:

It’s Time To Speak Up, To Act! from momofrs

In the sky float fluffy white clouds

Your answer confuses and beclouds

Can you be more specific and define

Which of them exactly is Cloud Nine?

– Shail Mohan (2008)