Jis bazm mein tu naaz se guftaar mein aave/Jaa Nii Kaalabad-e-Surat-e-Diivaar mein aave Princess Charme. For you. I woke up with a heart blissfully happy today. Some memories from a past life coming back like the Tsunami. It came from the fields of jolly sleep last night. Our past years breeds in me it seems. It feels like Spring today and I see some patches of my yard turning almost yellow. As I walked up my driveway, the embrace of the perennial weather kicks in. Not too warm not too cold, it sent some shivers down my spine. The memories, of you and me, remain close to my ventricular muscles. From time to time, a snapshot resurfaces in my mind. I see things that in my psyche I might have thought were lost to me, willfully expunged, but no they are right here. You took me back to a time when groves and streams and every common sight seemed apparelled in celestial light to me. The glory years, the freshness of those times, the things which I had lived I now can live no more. To me alone there came a a thought and that thought was a timely utterance. It was of you and me stealing RKs car, of you and me watching movies we were not supposed to, like papi ghudiya and bhoot aaya and khabrstaan mein mangal or some nonsense like that. And then thinking we did some grown up activity because we saw the actress with the 50 DDD chest bare it to the devil. God bless her soul. She must have succumbed under the weight of that chest. The late nights, me coaxing you to come to the chaat with me because I discovered what a cigarette looked like. Sleep overs a dozen steps down from each other. In technical terms, it shouldnt even be called sleep overs but we did call em that. We didnt know what a sleep over was. Going barefoot to a gazillion birthdays with faces unkempt and our mouths smudged with Bhaiyas mangue confit and snorting thru our nostrils because it was so damn spicy. I always wondered what the exact distance was I could spit that chilli out of my mouth. Always felt I had an elephants trunk in lieu of my mouth those times. Probably used the 500 muscle units in my body to do that trick. But then I still thought you were the most beautiful sister I had ever seen in my life even with our hair and clothes like homeless derelicts . And me telling you you were. And you believing me. And you telling me the same. And me believing you. And the heavens laughing with us in our jubilee. Such innocence, such purity. Unsurpassed, unconditional love. Clan des 7....Arti, the leader, the mother of the bride always and me relegated to being a spectator in this oligarchic wedding.The marriage of Lara and some unknown male. It was always an unknown male I recall. Because we didnt know if it was ok to marry Lara off without permission. You would be a bridesmaid or something but thank you for letting me hold the trays. I felt like I was one of the clan when you would do that. I do not understand why my access to Clan des 7 was blocked. I think because I hadnt started wearing teenager undergarment at that time. Reks beat me to it by a month or 2. Thank the Lord, the Gods were kind to me and developed me physically ...just in time for Laras 2nd marriage. I remember we wrapped a sari around some other doll and pretended it was a guy. Its hitting me right now, thats so lame. And gay. I know for a fact Lara liked boys. The calf who would be let loose so it could chase us, the adrenalin pumping thru our veins and we falling on our faces and not thinking it would be a big deal. Rhinoplasty was unheard of at that time. Then the moms coming out with roasted peanuts and feeding us in paper cones as if wed just been to war. And then having to gulp a liter of cow milk that was just pulled from Dadis cows udder. Black and white. With the kindest eyes I have ever seen in this lifetime. She fed 15 of us. Everyday. And never bulged. Even our cows knew what loyalty was. Thats what Tilak Singh taught our grandfather and thats what he taught our fathers. Thats what we teach our children. Faithful adherance to family, fierce loyalty to those we call our own. That humongous, almost statuesque mango tree. Throwing the ball around when we were told Mariamma or that epitome of servitude, whats his name Vachier? just swept leaves off acres of the compound. I never understood that kind of servitude even at that tender age, you know. Possibly couldnt be moral torpitude. But wed still play some amateur version of volleyball at the risk of our knuckles getting seriously hurt by our beloved gorgeous red snapper, Ti-Rouges hits on them. We should have listened to him. When he says, no volleyball, that means no volleyball. Those rings on his hands never made it easier. That damn slap hurt my friend. Wed take the slap and then go about doing it again. The running at a hundred miles an hour after Dada would light the first diya at Divali The excitement, the waiting with baited breath to see that splendid vision. Something so trivial it might seem, but so important for us at that time...when our imperial palace would suddenly light up with as if it had been waiting for a thousand synod eons to moan in ecstasy. Weddings, festivals, pujas,funerals, mourning, births, heartaches,dialogues of business, of love, of strife, the days our lives changed forever-- Brother D, Brother J. The loss of the nonpareil, unmatched Late QC Madun Gujadhur. Late J Gujadhur. Seemed like yesterday when one of our ladies ran up the steps, I can actually almost touch the tears sitting a million miles away right now, I can actually even see them, under her glasses, streaming down her face: hes gone! Dada nahi rahein! Trying to revive Jcha in his room and hearing the heart wrenching cries from that room. The immediate coming together of the brothers, us watching in horror but at the same time knowing in our hearts we were watching unparalleled fellowship here... Inseparability of a dozen or so hearts. The exterior semblance might not look perfect. The heritage might not be understood by outsiders..we might ask Where is it now, the glory and the dream? Regardless, this is a perpetual benediction indeed. We have the same blood. Our childhood is past, or busy or at rest . No matter. For that which is most worthy to have been blessed for me is to have had that kind of childhood. Sometimes for those obstinate questionings or for what made no sense and for some outward things and some failings why couldnt I stay back? why couldnt I go out at 17? Why couldnt I do this or that?. And then some shadowy recalls that have no meaning today. God has been kind to us sister. He gave us this family, these memories, this life. He gave me childhood memories to share with you. And if I ever cease to be before we can hug each other, remember that I love you. I dont say it for months, I dont speak to you for months, I get annoyed with you for no reason and I annoy you for no less. We fight, we sulk. But our love will never die. Thats the power of upbringing. Thats you and thats me. And I look at you today my darling. Youre a vision and you take my breath away. Daughter, sister, wife, mother, friend. Youre it all baby. My multi- colored Indian pavo cristatus peacock. Youre just regal. I pray to the Almighty not a shadow of grief ever touches your pine and cypress garden, Remain the way you are my love. Maintain thestature of a giraa-e-chasme badoor because HE who has passed under your spell would fall on their knees and spend a lifetime building a silky path so your dainty feet does not touch the rough ground ever. I love you my beautiful sister. muahhhhhh
Posted on: Sun, 02 Feb 2014 20:08:55 +0000
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