Old Christmas Tree…

Its 50 days to Christmas. For the first time in half that number of years, I will celebrate it away from home.

Christmas, 53 years ago, was the time when a second reason to celebrate the day was introduced to this world. Though my father says that he lacks a day to call his own, we say that no one but the whole world celebrates with him.

Christmas, 23 years ago, is the first memory I have of the rickety train journey, from a then small town of Cochin, to an even smaller town called Thiruvalla. Grandparents keeping their eyes peeled to see their second generation always counted as a blessing for me.

Christmas, seven years ago, was the time I fell in love with music, and the church choir. It was the time I knew, that my deep bass voice could be used in singing notes.

Christmas, a year ago, was ten days before I knew about my dad’s heart surgery. For the second time in three weeks, I boarded the plane for just the third time in my life. Frozen with fear, I landed at Chennai. But thank god, the New Year was born a happy child.

Christmas, now and for ever, will be a major reason I would continue to miss home, and my parents, and all that I hold near and dear. It would be the season that gave me the most to remember.

Present day, 3000 miles away from home, Christmas will be my private pain, as much as it is my public joy.

 

My Gentle Breeze...

I have no qualms in admitting that often, I am a scared child.

But what a scared child also knows, is how to become not a scared child anymore. Whenever I am, I close my eyes, letting my mind wander to a red house set amidst the greenest green. My mind rocks to the gentle wind that makes the littlest noise passing through the yellow leaves that pave the path. My eyes will search for the ancient gramophone, with enough youth still in it to turn me one more soulful ballad.

Then with the light breeze drying the tears on my cheeks, I think about the ‘Gentle Breeze’ in my life, my local guardian angel, my Nazeem uncle.

Much before I saw him, I had his picture in my minds eye, painted on by stories my father told me about. When we met, not surprisingly, the picture was more accurate than not. He smiled. He was thin. His eyes shined. He spoke with a rhythm to his voice, waving his fingers, conducting the phantom opera.

When I went away from home for my first long spell of solitude in a military hostel, I was not alone. I had him a loud call away. He was my local guardian angel. What he was, was also my school’s favourite neighborhood singer. I still remember me, sitting enthralled in the auditorium, listening to life, in beautiful musical notes.

Misfortune never bothered him. He faced them with a song on his lips. When it took away his music from his lips, he fought back by gently tapping his left fingers, in tune with the music in his heart. He never gave up, and he taught me his life.

Two thousand miles away from me, I can feel his heart beat, in tune to the musical notes inside. Two thousand miles away from me, I can feel his gentle defiance, at fate which played a game of dice. Two thousand miles away from me, I can feel the strength of determination emanating from the body, made frail by the forces bigger than man.

If he is half the person I know he is, he will be home to greet me with a song in his heart and a smile on his lips. After all, he was the person who taught me that a ‘Gentle Breeze’ can also mean M.S Nazeem…

 

A Haka Birthday To Me!

Haka birthday to youuu…

Haka birthday to youuu…

Haka birthday, dear Ajoooo…

Haka birthday to youuuu…

Quarter century done and over with.

A small step for me, a giant step for me too!!!

 

A Short Goodbye...

I am leaving my life in a blog behind for a little little while,

To not run away from real world realities, I need to rest, and rally around meself.

Recuperation might be just a day away, again, it may be a year…

Leaving behind a lot unsaid, I go,

to return, on another day…

peace be with you, people,

Shalom…go in peace and Godspeed!

 

Astalavista!

 

And He Taught Me To Drive…

Learning to drive all over again, feels so much like going back home in time…

to when I was much younger, to the time when my father gave me the handle of the Royal Enfield Bullet, on a straight road sans disturbances, with darkness upon us and the constant whimpering of my mother with my still young sister in her arms, terrified and saying in a little voice that I was too young to do what I was doing…

And I remember my father say through the corner of his mouth, without looking back, checking the road ahead for his young driver son, “I wouldn’t give him control if I didn’t trust him. If there is trouble, I will take over…” and my mother calmed down. I knew that day that even at seven, one could feel ten feet tall.

Eons later, when the Enfield disappeared and four wheels made their appearance for the first time in our lives, it was my father again who made me take the wheel. (Though I fell in love with our bright red Maruti Van at first sight, I had to wait till my eighteenth birthday to graduate from the left side of the Van to the right). Endless slaps on the wrist in a quest to gain steering balance later, my father felt confident enough to agree that the Van had become an extension of my mind and body. And he left me loose, to live life with the car, my own way.

Again, he trusted me enough to permit me to use the car as I wanted to. The trust was always there that I wouldn’t do anything that he wouldn’t with his car.

Years later, when I am on the fringes of getting my own car, trying for a drivers license whose primary concern is that I graduate from the RIGHT back to the LEFT, I miss my father. I miss the days when he sat by my side, never showing the fear he felt, slapping away at each tiny mistake and praising each moment of wise driving.

I started Qatar’s driving classes on the 10th of this month. I believe there is no better time to acknowledge the best driving teacher in the world.

Ladies and Gentlemen, the award goes to my dad, patience personified, for being the best in the trade when it comes to training his first born, in that delightful indulgence known simply as driving…

 

You Made Me A believer, Thank You...

When I started my blog, I didn’t think much about it.
It died a natural death.

Then Indian Express happened to me and someone there helped me turn a believer.
2000 hits later, I know.

I was meant to be here, in this little space on the web that I call, my own.
Thank you, for being here and coming back, and in the process,
making me a believer, in my own god-given talents.

Thank you!

 

About A Thief, Me...

Forgive me father, for I have thieved.

Eons ago, when I was still a crazy coin collector, I did what is unthinkable for me today, I thieved.

I still remember the incident as clear as yesterday. We were in a moving school bus and there were a lot of kids around, in blue. I was all of nine while he, seven. We talked about everything under the earth and soon enough, talk turned to coins. That was when temptation struck.

It was he who threw me the bait and unashamedly I took it. He looked me in the eye and asked if I knew about the East India Company. I said I did and dramatically slowly, he took out his little black Kodak film roll case. He jingled it near my ear and sure enough, there was the rattle of coins.

I was dying with curiosity and the devil took his time to open the box. Slowly, very slowly, as if the djinn resided inside, he opened the box. There were seven copper coins in all, one huge while others varied from small to smallest. I remember the words I spoke, "May I look at them?"

He wouldn’t let me, at first. But soon he gave in to the look in his friends eyes and gave the box to me.

I took out the coins one by one and deliberately took my time in looking at each one of them carefully. I wasn’t interested in the beauty of the coins, far from it. I was deliberately timing my movements so that the stop where he had to get down was approaching fast. My friend sat lost looking at the glee on my face. I am sure he must have felt contended, at having made me happy.

Then in one sudden flash of realization, he understood that his stop was on him. He tried to snatch the coins from my hand. I deliberately stumbled and barring the view of the smallest coin behind the largest one, I slipped the little one quietly into my pocket. He just ran with the box.

I was truly unhappy that I could not steal the biggest coin. I never felt guilty; it took me many more years before that. But when it did, he was completely lost to me.

To this day, that little coin resides in a corner of my room. It is safely packed inside a little black Kodak film roll case. If I ever meet my friend again from so long ago, I shall take that box out and beg him for forgiveness.

Forgive me father, for I have thieved.

Black Is thicker Than Blood!

So Do I.