(Continued) All of a sudden, my Father changed from the father, I knew. It is the medicines, it is because sodium/ potassium went low, it is because his BP increased, because ph level is low, because his sugar went high, because he must had another attack. You should have taken care, or you should have asked us, people tell me at his funeral and later on, when they meet me. Father became morose, annoyed, and difficult and started shouting at me for no apparent reason. Whatever food I prepared and gave, he would brush it aside and ask for something else, and then wouldn’t have that also. He would sit for hours before food, and not have a morsel, he would hold the paper while dozing off, he companied and criticised about the medicines, he would shout at me to lower the volume of TV, when it was not on, he would get angry if I was reading, asking me why I was not doing some work, if I was on the computer, he would grumble about it, and would sit as late as 12 clock. He complained about the sweltering weather, noise, everything. Nothing made sense to me. The doctors had sternly specified that the water intake should be strictly monitored, otherwise that it could create serious problems. All these months, we had meticulously monitored. But now with a vengeance, he went overboard. I called Sandya. It was no surprise that her cell was switched off. It always is, when she leaves. She is smart. Some people don’t want to be disturbed. Unreachable, it said. Had it happened, at present, she would have told the reason that she was sent to Mars in MOM, and expect me to believe that. Actions of people speak more than the false words they utter. But we need to act in Life as if we believe them. When she sees sufficient number of missed call alerts then she is gracious to return the call. And they expect us to be very grateful for that. And the funniest thing was, that I had given her my mothers cell, with sim card and all so that she is reachable anytime. But unreachable she was, for three full days. Why is it that people become unreachable when we are in desperate need for them ? I consulted my friend Dr Vineetha and Tanuja Bhattathiripad of Medical trust, who advised to get him admitted. They promised that everything would be taken care of. Father point blank refused. When things worsened, I got the routine tests done, through the local lab, which showed normal levels. I never saw it. Just like what happened to the majestic unsinkable titanic. I never saw the iceberg looming towards us, invisible. Kiran, Adv Reghus son spent some time with us in the evening. He was the first and last person to whom Father gave the signed souvenir of Malayala Kalagramam. But something was abnormally wrong, and I, in my limited knowledge and experience on these matters, failed miserably to fathom the distance of the disaster looming ahead, silent and formidable.- like an invisible terrible icy iceberg. As the Supreme power decides, for anything to happen, there is an allotted time. People of infinite wisdom and vision can perhaps gain the knowledge about these things, but how helpless, we lesser mortals are, superficial to feel the vibrations of another suffering human being. And I must have been so shallow to have lost the sensitivity to feel the sufferings enaminating from my own Creator. How much more damned, doomed and ill-starred can I be, to have lost the vibe with my Father, at this critical stage? It was an appalling misfortune, and this was why I, with due humility, submitted that I failed in my duty, perhaps, for which I would never be forgiven, by my Soul and by the World. The next day was no better than the previous one. Just that, he refused to come out of the washroom, the whole day. It was one of those days you walk through the fires of hell that burn your body, mind and soul, but the sad part is you don’t die. You still live, carrying the balance of the smouldering embers inside you. My request, cajoling, scolding everything fell on deaf ears. A painting teacher from Navodaya Vidyalaya had come early in the morning to get blessings from Father. He waited till late noon, but in vain. I offered him tea and cashewnuts. This was the first time that I heard my Father asking a guest to leave, and come on another day, after taking appointment. I was shocked and profusely apologised to the guest. Never in my life has Father given ‘appointments’ to see people. Choorni’s doors were always open, and anyone could walk in, anytime. I remember the days when Choorni was young, many who travel the National Highway-47, in front of our house, were fascinated and mesmerised by her charm and poise, would halt, tour the inside of Choorni, have tea and befriend us. Many came back, asking father to design and execute their houses. This was the first time in her history, that a guest went back dejected, not having been able to see her Creator. She must have felt so bad. I sat on the steps in the verandah and wept for her. But within a week, the teacher came again. With flowers. The freezing glass casket adorned with flowers bearing the smiling Sage peacefully was there for everyone to like, to comment or to share. The teacher came and stood before me with folded hands. I had nothing to offer. I sought the help of my father’s friend Elayidom to help me get out of this predicament. His persuasion and appeals also fell on the ears that had become deaf for my Father, on that particular day. My anger, frustration and selfish ego refused to make me attend the numerous calls that my sister was making from Kuwait. The demons in my mind screamed to me that what use can this phone call give you in this hour of distress except sympathy and advice. I was shallow to forget certain things. One can’t be pardoned for forgetting memories which are sacred. They need to be remembered, both happy and sad. How my sister looked after our Aunty when she was paralysed, when she was just doing her predegree. Her teachers were expecting a rank holder in her, when she willingly took upon herself to look after Aunty during her second year final exams. Those days there was no home nurse also. She would get up at 4 in the morning, take care of Aunty and do all the household chores for our cousins,Manjubhash, Sudheer, Sugathan and shaji, since they were all boys. Our parents were devastated with her decision of not attending the exam. It was after much coercion that she finally agreed to write the exams. And she passed with flying colours, but missed the rank. Was it not that sacrifice and diligence that must have been invisibly been engraved in me to look after my parents with so much care and concern? It must have been, who knows? So until afternoon, no one would have believed that there was anything wrong with Father because he talked normaly about standard things, and not a word that he was being difficult. Choorni offered me warmth. As it always did, in my most terrifying moments of misery. I leaned helpless and tired against its solid brick walls now a dark brownish red colour to get the strength and power to overcome this moment of terrible agony. In my darkest moments of torture I have felt its tight embrace protecting me not only from the pathetic monsters living in this world screaming for my blood but also from the piteous imperceptible demons marauding my mind. The World may disbelieve, when I say that non living things has Life in them, has feelings for us, feels for, loves us, cares for us and dies with age. Maybe no technology so far could prove that there is life in Non living things. Some non livings things, have more Life in them, than living beings. I cannot prove it, being a being an average person. But someone will. In future. Long after I am dead and gone. If this page remains till then, in the recycle garbage bin of the internet world, I would perhaps get a kind word of mention. I do not remember what day was it or which date. 23rd/ 24th /25th of April? If I thumb through the pages of my diary where I scribble the conversations of the demons cohabiting inside me, I would get it. But what importance does it have. Nothing. I just sat immobile. There was nothing I could do. I did not wanted to get cursed by the wrath of my Father when he was in such a furious mood. Outwardly, I carried out all the routine, petty domestic jobs of cooking cleaning, washing mopping, cleaning the courtyard and what not, just to restore some calmness in my outward appearance. Hearing the uneasy tones from Choorni, Anne, our immediate neighbour dropped in. She was my Mothers friend. A simple person, with a heart of gold. She was always there in our house, as an angel to help us, in times of distress. Sensing the ordeal that Choorni was undergoing, she sat with me for some time and talked. That was a great comfort. At least, I had someone in flesh and blood to look into my eyes and talk to me, holding my hand. On that day, I felt the real warmth that courses through your cells as a cool scented breeze, when touched by another human being. In moments of tiredness, the sense of touch does wonders to heal the pain- as no other antidote can. In the film ‘Thanmatra” , Mohanlal explains this in a scene of parents meeting. Blessed are those in this world, who have the luxury of someone to comfort them through touch. You need not be related in the worldly sense of meaning. Evening came. The sun adoringly kissed the clouds lingering on to its softness not letting it go. The white cloud blushed and turned red at this open display of affection. It was unfortunate that they would never have a moment of privacy, in this vast world- Not for centuries to come. They were both public to everyone, - the sun and the cloud. They would never be united in a sanctimonious wedding to have a world of their own. The Sun went down taking the crimson colours down with him, and darkness floated in. ‘When it is dark you can see the stars’. I heard Ralph Emerson whisper. But, even though the night was dark, there were no stars in the sky. Something beautiful and sensitive still resides in me. How else can I enjoy the beauty of a sunset in such a romantic manner, when going through life’s petty difficulties? I went inside. If requests don’t yield result, we have to use physical force, right? So, I resorted to that. I tried lifting my father from the toilet seat. Even for a frail man of 86 years, he was pretty heavy for me. I staggered and would have fallen had it not been for the narrow three feet wide bathroom. By that time, he was in a delirious mood and talking things I just could not follow. He was disoriented. And was talking things I could not understand. I am strong. If you call this strength. But I was not. In such moments, emotions desert me. I just think and act pragmatically, because I do not have the luxury to break down. My husband and son somehow, brought father to his bed. I close my mind and the scene unwinds in my memory. I close my eyes. I cannot bear the pain. I sat by his bed. Alone. And held his frail hand. At regular intervals, I applied a spoon of warm water on his parched lips. He was mumbling incoherently. The steady rhythm of the work on the kochi Metro, and the noise of the night traffic kept me awake. I closed my eyes and prayed, Aum Namah Shivaya the simple prayer he taught us in our childhood, when our cousin Ramu, died in a tragic train accident. I don’t know the reason, but amongst the 10001 deities we have in our Hindu culture, I feel at peace, when I visit a Shiva temple. And the coincidence was that I was reading the Shiva Trilogy , Part I. – by Amish Patel. Father slept peacefully after midnight. I also retired. The Govt came calling at the wrong time. Maybe they realized the mistake for crowning father accidentally with the Doctorate degree, the Govt may have thought to make up for it in another manner. It was a foolish blunder. Little did they understand what MV Devan is. A call came from Cultural dept, asking for our address, which I gave. On enquiring they vaguely replied it was to send a DD. Sensing something amiss, I clarified that before sending anything, please discuss with Father. They never bothered. After two days we were in receipt of a DD of Rs one lakh from the cultural dept. Even though he was tired and frail, this made him quite irritated. He called Adv Nandu and told him to immediately dictate a letter, which I noted down, The DD was returned back to the Kerala Govt. Not that he we were rich enough to discard One lakh but he felt deeply insulted, and anguished by the attitude of the Govt. He was a sad man on this issue, when he breathed his last. He never got a proper apology from the concerned on this matter. Taking decisions alone is not singularly an easy thing. But if we try and seek suggestions, we can get really confused. And end up deciding nothing. I requested the agency to provide a male nurse. Sandhya also returned, with very convincing answers for her absence. Who does not have convincing reasons for their absence? Two domestic help- a male nurse and cook, at Choorni to look after Father. I thought it would help. And boarded the train to Goa, for two days to discharge official responsibilities. But I had to pay a price. A very heavy price. And never in my wildest dreams thought that I would come back for ……. A birthday and a haunting birthday present The moment I disembarked at Karmali, the quaint old railway station at Goa on 28th April, I was inundated with a 101 calls from the domestic helpers at Choorni. Fathers condition was slipping out of control. Each phone call brought with it, tiny boxes pain and uncomfortable news. I just could not undertake an overnight journey the same day itself. I was feverish. Moreover tickets were not available. I would return the next day. A very costly mistake in my life. Meanwhile Rajini, Soby, Ramesh, Praveen, etc insisted that we have a small get-together. I gladly agreed, because I could not think of being alone in my studio apartment. They had arranged for a small birthday cake. I was surprised to realize it was for me. I had forgotten. It was 28th April, my birthday. What importance does it have for someone to remember it? They wanted to infuse some cheer to my depressed tensed situation. Again the calls came, breaking the patience inside me. More than fathers’ condition, it was about their interpersonal issues. I blasted them and then called the agency that I needed a complete replacement the day I came home. But it was not to be. They replaced our lives. It’s miserable to cut your first birthday cake with so much sadness in your heart, while my Creator was having a difficult time. It was a birthday in which I died a million little deaths. Everyone, young or old, looks forward to a birthday present. Its a mystery and you love the secret, wondering what the other person must have got for you. And you cherish it. We never had any birthday parties when we were children, even though I loved to have one. I got my first and last- birthday gift, cased in a tightly lidded freezing box. It was ready on 29th, and Choorni patiently waited for my arrival and offered it to me on 30th. And there was a crowd. A massive crowd. But not for me. And flowers. Lots of flowers. But in the form of wreaths. How was Fathers last day, I keep wondering. I can ge only fragmented versions. Father was back to almost normal on 29th morning. And the bickering amongst the helpers had surprisingly diminished. Father had his breakfast and everything was ok. Some premonition told me to request our neighbour Anne to check up on him. Her reports made my heart sink Fathers condition was slipping out of control. Little did I know that it was the calmness before the storm. By eleven the situation was alarming. I sensed something innately wrong when Sandhya told me that Father wanted to speak to me. Will you come soon, he asked in a trembling weak voice. I froze at the question. He had never before asked that question. Yes, I replied. Am boarding tonight. Tomorrow morning I will reach. Just be alright till I reach. He waited for me. But. I was eternally late. You fail in life again and again, and then after some time you don’t feel the pain of defeat. You become numb. Lifeless. Was this the birthday present, I was destined for? What salvation has to be offered to correct my deformed horoscope stars? The Almighty is kind in its infinite wisdom, and deliverance was offered. We are at times so blinded by our irrelevant way of thinking that sometimes we miss the most beautiful images life gifts us. My son was the only relative by my Father when he left Mother Earth. He made it up for all the other absentees. He was taken aback, confused and perplexed, when my Father lay in state, silent and sleeping on the floor since 29th afternoon. Choorni was swarming with guests, public, press except us, who had to be there, but was not. Me in Goa, and my Sister in Kuwait. Maybe it was much better that my son was there and not me. And paid his mothers unpaid debts. To make her free. In a few hours time, my son, Sidharth matured beyond his age, The innocence of childhood was replaced by a mask of confused images. He became the Little Budha for me, for he became taller than me in thoughts and wisdom.. Now I need to say something about facebook, since I am connecting with you all through this medium of contact.. I have been having a fb account, opened by my friend way back in 2010, but I was never interested, as I thought that it was too complex for 105 year(as per fb record) olds to learn. I kept away from it for a long time. I remember the day my Father passed away, even before we got the time to absorb the shock, I was inundated with 101 calls from press and reporters, and all calls were to me, as my sister was in Kuwait. I was shocked and pained, when I got a most unexpected call from a friend of mine, who is also an fb addict, and I thought that my friend Preethi must have communicated through fb. As I was sore with raw pain, this made me more wounded and she saw the demon in me. Even though she contradicted, I was in no mood to listen, as I was a hotheaded ferocious wounded bull. How wrong I was, I came to know, just hours later, and profusely apologised to her. It was not through fb, that the world came to know. As soon as the Doctor, who came in to check my fathers condition stepped out of the room, the Press was informed, by power mongrels. Before all, Preethi dear, who has put up with so many eccentricities of mine, I apologise for having shouted at you, on that day. It was the press, with their sensational breaking news episode that created the misunderstanding. People and press need to learn to respect misfortune or death and give some amount of decent time, at least a few hours. Everyone wants to cash in, right, whether it be death or loss or another’s misfortune, right? At least a respectable time, till his eyes were closed could have been given. My heart goes still when I think of those moments. I was so helplessly away in Goa, so far away. I can still hear my Fathers helpless pleas to have some privacy till he got properly dressed and was ready to receive the guests, lying in his ice cold chamber. But that was not to be. Everyone had to be there first. Because it was MV Devan, and important personalities were expected to arrive. The place was swarming with people and press. We never knew what happened to our Fathers wedding ring that he had worn throughout his life till the last day. Also that a considerable amount was missing in cash. Our most precious person is no more, so this loss pales before that. By the time, I arrived the next day, everyone had arrived. My sister, family, other family members, friends, colleagues, press,neighbours, strangers, people from all walks of life. I was his third child. And the last to arrive. As soon my son saw me, he ran towards me, and held my hand. I basked in his warmth and a silent sob escaped my heart. Suddenly, I felt I was enveloped by a calmness that had been desperately missing in the past few weeks. I understood that never again would I have to hold his hand. Because from that day onwards, he was holding mine. His tiny hands gives me the strength to go on. Those tiny hands will take me, lead me, protect me, comfort me. And now I know that I have been safely anchored, however worlds apart we may be in nautical miles. For some, I did not exist. They were more curious about my husband. All have heard about him, but not seen. Did these people come to see Rajmohan or to say goodbye to Father, I wondered. I was stopped before entering the house. Not that a few minutes is going to make any difference, anymore. Its a strange thing that some people just can’t respect other peoples choices. Any deviation from the benchmark s considered disrespectful. How do I explain to them that we are as much comfortable in our abnormalities as you are with your normal style of life. That we have respected and accepted each other’s silences, interests, and spaces as you do in your life. That each marriage is exclusive in its own accomplishments and aberrations, that cannot be judged by the usual parameters. I can’t explain things to normal people. I can only connect with the abnormal. A few were curious about my bindi and kajal. People are really concerned, aren’t they, if you don’t fall into the accepted mode dictated by the dogmatic traditions followed by the masses? After an awful night journey, preceeded by days of anxiety, with every fibre of your body straining from fatigue, one needs to refresh, inorder to soothe your mental fires burning inside you. Those rare people would have preferred if I walked in minus the bindi and kajal. I have accepted the weirdness in with all humility a long time ago and needn’t prove it to the sane few, I believe. The lamp was burning brightly. The incense sticks spread its mesmerising smell. Flowers were arranged beautifully. My Father looked calm and serene. Not even a trace of the tiredness of the previous day was evident.. His Juba and mundu was perfect, The randam mundu lay majestic on his shoulder. The specs kept properly. Hair combed and brushed. All arrangements were flawlessly done. Everything was perfect. Its only when you are Alive, you are difficult to be taken care of. Its easy when you are dead. And people really know how to take care of the dead. I sat beside him. The ice cold box refused to give entry to touch. When did I become untouchable? And who made me untouchable, when I was the person who looked after him all these days? I thought I heard the question he always asks, when did you arrive? What do I answer ? That I arrived too …… late…..??. I would never again hear his voice call out to me. I sat beside my birthday present. There was nothing I could do. Maybe he suffered terribly on my birthday, but bore the suffering, because he did not want to hurt me more, by dying on my birthday. With all his strength he must have held on to one more day. History repeats in a cruel manner. We had similarities, somewhere, I understood sadly, that we can sadly laugh at. Your Guru died on your birthday. The very next day after your birthday, you fell terribly ill and we almost lost you. The very next day after my birthday, you are bidding final farewell. Are we both cursed to have birthdays? Osho says, ‘Any act done with totality becomes your prayer’. I know that I have said my prayers for my Father.I did not cry when my father lay in state. I don’t want the world to see my grief. KGibran quotes, Our most sacred tears never seek our eyes. Every hour wounds, but the last one kills…. I remembered the calls I attended on 29th afternoon, regarding arrangements. Some wanted to take him to EKM Town hall. Thomas mash asked me if we could arrange at Changampuzha park. There are so many places, where my Father has touched the lives of people, organisations, Institutions. But knowing that father was too tired to travel even in this condition, I did not want him to be troubled. We agreed on Aluva Town Hall. At the Aluva town hall, where he was laid in state, countless people from all walks of life came to pay homage. Minsiters KC Joseph, K Babu, KPSC chairman KS Radhakrishnan, G Balachandran, Anwar Sadath, Dist Collector Rajamanickam, Yesudasan, Veerendra Kumar, APK, Sanu master, Thomas Mathew, PC Chacko, Ministers, and so many others that he would have been so happy to see them all once more, to talk to them, to laugh with them, to share jokes with them. I felt intensely sad. If the Almighty in his infinite grace granted me a wish, I would have asked them to give Father ten minutes of life when he lay in Town Hall so that he could happily be with his friends and I would have gladly given any number of years from my life in exchange. He preferred to be cremated at the same place where Mother was cremated. At the Ambattukavu public crematorium. Ashwin and Sidharth lit the pyre. It was a simple cremation. It rained heavily to quench some of the raging fires inside us. I heard his request, ‘ Kurachu vellam thaa, shalini’. He always used to ask for water, And we would ration it in ounce glass and give. And he would glare at us. As per doctors instructions, I would retort. He would push the glass and ask for more. We would end up fighting. He stubborn. And me armed with the doctors advice. Our fights our gone. Forever. I touched his lips softly and gently with the lone salty tear mixed with the fresh rain water. In the evening CM Oomen Chandy and Ramesh Chennithala paid a visit. But I wish they had come when he was alive. My father would have had plenty to say to them. We had nothing to say. A few days after Father passed away, some journalists approached me whether I could write something about my Father. I apologised and replied in the negative, for I do not know how to write cryptically arranged morally upright sentences to suit a particular sect or audience.. How can I explain to them that I can only scribble down disoriented sentences and fragmented phrases? And how was I to tell that I let my pen be confiscated by some elements many years ago? Would they have understood? Definitely not. They would have thought it to disjointed thoughts of a ranting mind. Now after reading this, perhaps they would understand a fraction of what I have been trying to express. The sensible may not have understood a word of what I have written. This is for the insensible people who are at times disconnected with the world and have a bit of insanity in them like me. Only they would understand my language. It all finally depends on the degrees of insanity you have inside you. ‘The best people possess a feeling for beauty, the courage to take risks, the discipline to tell the truth, the capacity for sacrifice. Ironically, their virtues make them vulnerable, they are often wounded, sometimes destroyed’. Ernest Hemmingway. This sums up my Father. He was a different person for each person. It depended in which angle they looked at him. He was an Artist, an Architect, an orator, had done written plays, directed plays, was active in social and cultural activities, had an excellent memory power, but more importantly he wanted to be a good human being, sensitive to all things around him. He was in a way endowed with the Midas touch- that would turn anything and anyone to Gold, with whom he came into contact with. We, are blessed to have been born as his children and we bow down to Mother Earth for the infinite kindness the Almighty has given us, and for having the opportunity to befriend all the wonderful people we could meet through his reflected halo. The emotional vacuum created by the loss of persons or detachment leaves us completely drained and we are lost in the multitude of dark alleys in the deep dungeons of pain and anguish, perhaps never to be found again. When the memories’ torment, lesser mortals like us turn to find Solace in the works of the Great masters. Unfortunately, a turning point comes, wherin even the legacy of the valuable treasured troves of information fails to give us the comfort for our survival. I have often wondered at the tremendous strength Tagore had, when he quoted that, “We need to accept pain with gratitude” when he lost his dearest grandson. It defies my limited perception how the Great Maestro was able to accept the terrifying loss of his near one in such a graceful manner and was able to give such a noble statement. And from that profound pain that surfaced from the loss, he created beautiful verses that to this day remains unsurpassed in Indian Literature. I could intensely feel the presence of Rekha, when she came to me in my dreams on this Sept 30th. to relive the painful moments that I went through so that I could exorcise my fears, to a certain extent in this confession. And it has helped. I must admit that fb also helped in he healing process but in a different manner. It taught me a few interesting things also in the process, which my friends didn’t. When I logged in, I found to my surprise and shock that it is highly compartmentalised. It has friends, close friends, acquaintances, family and so many additions and deletions you can make through the custom process. Initially it was a bit disappointing to realize that you are just one among the public or in the restricted group for most of the people whom you thought were friends. But fb opened a wonderful new window – the window to the beautiful world of quotes of famous authors, poems, songs, paintings and news in general. I am thankful to fb for having connected with the lost world of Literature. The last thing I posted was the song ‘മരണമെത്തുന്നനേരത്തുനീയെന്റെഅരികില്ഇത്തിരിനേരംഇരിയ്ക്കണേ കനലുകള്കോറിമരവിച്ചവിരലുകള്ഒടുവില്നിന്നെ തലോടിശമിയ്ക്കുവാന്ഒടുവിലായകത്തേയ്ക്കെടുക്കുംശ്വാസ- കണികയില്നിന്റെഗന്ധമുണ്ടാകുവാന് മരണമെത്തുന്നനേരത്തുനീയെന്റെഅരികില്ഇത്തിരിനേരംഇരിയ്ക്കണേ ഇനിതുറക്കേണ്ടതില്ലാത്തകണ്കളില്പ്രിയതേനിന്മുഖംമുങ്ങികിടക്കുവാന് ഒരുസ്വരംപോലുമിനിയെടുക്കാത്തൊരിചെവികള്നിന്സ്വരമുദ്രയാല്മൂടുവാന് അറിവുംഓര്മ്മയുംകുത്തുംശിരസ്സില്നിന്ഹരിത സ്വച്ഛസ്മരണകള്പെയ്യുവാന്മരണമെത്തുന്നനേരത്തുനീയെന്റെഅരികില് ഇത്തിരിനേരംഇരിയ്ക്കണേ അധരമാംചുംബനത്തിന്റെമുറിവുനിന്മധുരനാമജപത്തിനാല്കൂടുവാന് പ്രണയമേ,നിന്നിലേയ്ക്നടന്നൊരെന്വഴികള്ഓര്ത്തെന്റെപാദംതണുക്കുവാന് അതുമതിഈഉടല്മൂടിയമണ്ണില്നിന്നി-വന് പുല്ക്കൊടിയായ്ഉയിര്ത്തേല്ക്കുവാന് മരണമെത്തുന്നനേരത്തുനീയെന്റെ അരികില് ഇത്തിരി നേരം ഇരിയ്ക്കണേ on 30th early morning. As I was with Rekha, scribbling these disoriented thoughts, I remained completely out of touch with the social networking sites. It has been five days since I have been ‘dead’ on fb and wa, and as expected very few has noticed the absence. The only few people who felt I was missed and was concerned enough to call or message by sms was very few. I bow down to you for your concern. Atleast a few. It makes a difference. I do not have the courage to mention the names, lest it hurt others, but the coward in me who loves suduko and puzzles, would like to share the joy through veiled clues of only the name of the place of those who connected when I was dead. 94, Jawahar nagar, SBT Vytilla, wynad, Ahmedbad, Conoor, Edappaly,and of course Burma road. Surprised, I was when I got a message from Beena, my colleague, asking me, whether I was fine, when I was not. We rarely communicate, and never on holidays or Sundays. I was miserable and forlorn. How did she get the ‘feel’? Is there a thing called ‘telpathy/ I wonder. Do people in other orbit connect with your self- when an undercurrent of similar thoughts or visuals haunts your mind? Am not Ok. I replied. A reply message of concern to comfort floated back. We have had our share of difference of opinion while dealing official matters. Now while penning these, it makes me sad, whether I have hurt in any manner. An incident blurred in vision and bitter in taste, floated into my thoughts from the cobwebbed memories. About the offices we all work for. Mighty Corporations can sometimes be much worse than a covering individual coward. Especially in our present day world. When we have mastered the supreme technology for sending MOM to Mars, we need to cover our heads in shame and disgust when powerful Authorities with more than enough powers vested in them through massive volumes of justice and equality, remain silent, mute and escape from taking any action. Inaction- the most favoured and preferred action opted by our mighty Corporates in our present day system. ‘A life spent making mistakes is not only more honourable but more useful than a life spent doing nothing’. G Beranrd Shaw. But people in great organisations do not ever read these philosophies. So they will remain eternally blind. Blind also to what is happening around them. Unfortunately, it is not the faceless organisations that gets affected and suffer. It is the helpless individuals and their families who get disorientated through distancing who suffer for no fault of theirs. The Corporates remain Mighty, intimidating the helpless individuals without protecting them. Whether it is the brutal gang rape of girls in our country or devious elements insulting females in Corporate office , if justice cannot be served,then is it not better to burn the gigantic volumes of orders / circulars stored safely in the dusty vaults and free the space? And it’s an irony when the space so gained through inaction and injustice at the cost of the wronged people is used to crown the enquiry people and offer them a throne in the place of their choice. Some benefits from the misfortunes of others. That is the law of nature. But wounded tigers are dangerous. And wounded families also. Men with supreme vision and calibre come and go like meteors. We unfortunate ones cannot hope to be blessed always by magnificent statesmen throughout our era. We may have to wait centuries perhaps for such people. But thankful that at least such people existed in this world, once upon a time. I salute to those great visionaries who had a mission. VSuresh, MKK, Sharma, Baligar. Unless someone like that comes, it is foolish to expect justice. And plain stupidity if we try fighting for justice. But it is never too late to hope that something would be done.Positively! Just a few days before everyone celebrated the cleaning process as a Festival, but its sad to note that it is a mockery to see the tall Chiefs in various offices holding a broom much taller than them, to signify the gesture. How sad that we have all become blind. An office is cleaned daily by the housekeeping staff. That’s not what is expected of people who hold responsible positions, in my perception. You need to clear the pending papers, you need to take decisions on files,you need to have the guts and courage to say yes or no, you need to boldly address the complaints of your staff- these would have made some sense. Instead we have spent lakhs for purchasing this hungama, had a good time including food and snacks, taken photographs, uploaded in social networking sites, and smugly told everyone that we done our duty. Its a sad thing that we can all see, but lack sight and vision. Who understands the madness, I scribble.. If you don’t, you are lucky that you are sane. If you do, you are insane, like me. ‘I shut my eyes, in order to see’. Goethe. Sometimes, Dead things are more Alive for me. Like my ancestral house Choorni. My Dell laptop. My Etios Liva. For me they either live or die. Just like human beings. Even though some human beings makes us Dead while Alive. And it hurts. Hurts terribly. Its not easy to carry out the worldly tasks when you are in a disoriented state. Disorientation causes distraction, which is why accidents happen in our every day lives. Whether it was my Mothers prayers, Fathers concern or my Little Budhas love, that saved me from the gigantic truck that loomed in the form of a black iceberg, in the Highway I was crossing in Goa, I do not know. I would have been devastated if my Liva was crushed and crumbled like the massive Titanic. I ask my friend Suja, to adopt my Liva, when I am dead and gone; for I do not want her to be unused and abandoned. Her keys will be waiting for you in the car. Take them for me. And do one more favour. Drown my laptop in the Mighty Choorni. Let it be carried with its salty tears to the darkest deepest depths, where it can rest peacefully for eternity. Ultimately, saved from my years of continuous tapping. Choorni may not forgive me for the distance I am keeping from her- but I am too hurt and a coward to face the pain of seeing her without her God and Goddess, Devan and Devi who lived here for more than three decades. Some things hurt. Some haunts. The Silence of the spaces. The emptiness of the rooms. The stillness of the air frozen in time. The unocuupied chair. The empty bed. The welcome picture of KCS. The picture frames. The cramped bookshelf. The over spilling tea poi, which hardly had enough space to keep a tray properly. The silent phone 262 5053. The artefacts. The dusty sculpture. The tightly stacked books. The missing Gold ring. The bottle of water. The stone studded cup with lemon tea. The watch. The silence of the TV. Mathrubhumi news. The absence of ring tone for 94473 41592. Guests who will never walk in again. The absence of The mathrubhumi and The Hindu. The daily visitor. The post woman. The unopened posts. The magazines. The colourful Art brochures. The invitations for programmes. The mosquito coil. Everything cuts into the heart. And it bleeds. Somewhere inside. Unseen. Even the cobwebs will have its own story to tell. A story so sad, that the water in the Choorni puzha will taste salty. Memories never really go away, do they? They touch you gently and unseen. They kiss your mind when no one is looking. They caress your thoughts when in Solitude. And that is when you break down. Not when the masses are there. Not in front of a crowd. I touch the towel which still carries the smell of sweat of my father. I wear the cotton saree that my Mother wore. She had an insane desire to always see her daughters nicely dressed, whether it be a wedding or a funeral. She loved kanceepuram sarees, even though she could not buy many after losing her job. It made her so happy when we presented her sarees from the famous Nalli or Kumaran silks. It too her back to her old days, when she was young and beautiful and full of life. But within a few days she will press it back on us saying that it is too heavy for her. She lied at times. As all mothers do. To make her children happy. I keep the small souvenirs. An old watch. A pipe. Some silverstrands from my fathers hair. A worn dairy of my Mother. A faded photo when she was a baby. Some people are happy in their madness . And so am I. The only thing I asked of the worldly possessions that my father owned was his much used cellphone. An old Nokia phone presented by my Sister, Dolly. I needed it to keep in touch. Who knows when he will call me ? I needed it also to keep in touch with his friends. Once in a while I become a child. And do naughty things. I call his friends from his phone. Sometimes. Sometimes only. APK, Sethumamamn, Vinod, Thomas Mathew, KN Shaji, Manilal, Lalsalam etc who understand my insanity. ‘Devan devalokathu ninnum vilikunuvo ? they would ask delighted and a bit sad to get the call. I can hear my fathers naughty reply aimed at Sudhakaran, ‘All the Devas have fled from heaven once this Asura Devan has stepped into their Devaloka’. I wonder how many of my friends will like me, hate me, despise me, loathe me for the insanity I have penned. I am curious how many of the insane amongst you will connect to the insanity I have deep inside me, which is often camouflaged with a plastic powder coated mask, that may in the first instance appear attractive, but which is deeply deceptive within. What am I to you ? A friend ? close friend, acquaintance, restricted, just one among the public, blocked, cancelled, dead, or simply a weird one ? I have befriended strangers, who have remained friends. I have friends, who have lost me, to become strangers. I have befriended weird strangers from outer space who has welcomed this 105 year old granny Ammoos Devan, into their warmth. Strangers I have not seen nor spoken to, who are wonderful with no pretensions and masks. I salute you my dear unseen, unheard stranger friends, Pookid, Sukid, Reekid, Govkid, Mukid,Kaikid, Prekid. Funny names for people from outer world. But we need to disconnect some. From our cell. From our lives. One of these days, I got an unexpected call a colleague’s wife. Working as a teacher. We wonder how she got selection, for teachers are supposed to teach good things. And understand people. Nothing very wrong with them, except that they harbour fantastic notions that they are the most blessed life in the world, and do not want omens, be it friends or family to cross their way. We earthly beings are happy with our little joys and sorrows, and don’t hamper for anything from Heaven. Her fears were on some imaginary old fears that never existed in the first place. There is no rule that says that we need to tolerate profanities and obscenities even if it is coming from teachers. Some calls needs to be disconnected. And some relations. I disconnected both. Forever. And we don’t lose anything by that, but gains peace. I have enough friends who patiently bear my madness and a husband who accepts my eccentric insanity without forsaking me. Sethumamamnem, my fathers soul mate and friend since 60’s cried when I talked to him. They all retain my Fathers number in their cell phone as he is still Alive in their hearts. I cannot describe Sethumammen. He’s too wonderful a person to be described. A gem rarely found in this world. ‘Softness is not weakness. It takes courage to stay delicate in a World this cruel’ Beau Taplin quotes. How aptly it describes him. Am waiting with the boarding pass, my child, he told me when I called him. The words sliced my heart. I knew that I needed to go and comfort him, however tight scheduled I am with my petty life. The day I landed, I took the cab preferred by my Father during his last few months. Karthikeyan No 234. The white Indigo car. It was always comforting to travel in that car. Earlier we had very close friend and driver , who was with us for many years since 1999. But suddenly some people turn strangers. And then we are lost to them. Vehicle No 1952. It is each ones choice. But material things need to be returned. He had borrowed a huge amount from Father for building his house and for meeting the balance for purchasing car 1952. Only after several requests was a small portion returned. When father was in hospital, we needed cash to meet the miscellaneous expense. Had we got it at that time it would have made life a bit more simpler. My Father was disappointed in the hospital bed, when I told him that the calls are no more being attended, But he kept silent. He never voiced his disappointments. And the money remains unpaid. Karthikeyan in his 234 car took me to Kottayam. One has to make these small visits. Its useless and stupid if we put it off for another day. And then it becomes too late. Why carry the burden of small undone acts that can bring you big guilt later on. I dropped in at Carithas Hospital to visit my Colleague Reghu, who had flown down from Mumbai. His Mother, old and frail but strong in character, is fighting a losing battle with cancer and admitted. I saw him and his sister feeding their Mother love . That is the only thing that we can feed our parents when they are old and dependent on us. Our love. Nothing else makes them more happier. And more contended. If they have it enough, they can live happily when they are dead. They will never feel hungry in their dead life .I was glad that I went and saw a Mother. At times I am sad that I can’t see my Mother as she hides in my Heart. I cried for the first time after I lost my Father when I sat at Sethu mamens feet. I could feel the frozen grief melting into copious tears We relived all the old memories we had. Sethu mammen held my hand and walked down the memory lane. That was when I came to know that he was the PS to MKK Nayar while in FACT. I was astounded by the command he had over English language. An old pen sketch done by my Father was pinned among the numerous other paintings and photos, untidily arranged on the wall, but neatly and sacredly cherished in this old Sages mind. He gave me a long forgotten letter send in the late 80’s by my Father. Sethu maman wept over the loss of his close friends, Aravindan, Dr Baby, Krishnan kutty, ,,and so on. He naughtily refused to click a photo with me saying that he will do it only with beautiful people like Jacquiline Kennedy . I thought he was joking, but no. His niece Radhika tried in vain to retrieve the his photo standing with Jkennedy,. He talked non-stop about his Acharyan. That is what he called him. Sethu mamen was with us every time we needed him. Whether it be birth, death, or wedding. A person full of joy, and laughter. The one person I have seen without any blemishes or scars. He cleverly hides his scars from other people. He was the great man who gave the name of Mimi to Aparna my niece, in March 1990 When he took her in his arms when she was a small tiny, chubby, smiling plump cute baby having the most twinkling and mischievous eyes, Sethu mamann exclaimed, Oh my how tiny she is like a twinkling minnaminugnu(firefly). And that was shortened by all of us to call her Mimi. Even though, now she resembles a cute dinosaur minnaminugu, but with the same twinkle in her eyes, which has seen much sadness and sorrow, within this short span. I know that I need to do more for Sethumammen, that I really need to look after him as I did my Father. It would make my Father so happy in heaven. But we all are selfish, aren’t we, justifying our inactions with so many petty. I left after receiving his blessings. Some friends follow their friends even to Heaven as soon as the flight takes them. They stand ready with the boarding pass. As soon as one reaches Heaven, he sends the flight back for the friend. Lucky are those who have such friends. The very next day my Father passed away, Krishnankutty uncle, Aravindans brother in law, passed away. When I went to their house in Kottayam, Indira Chechi received me with so much grace and warmth, even though she had lost her dearest person only a few months ago. I was touched. On seeing the news reports on TV channels, she had done her best to hide it from him, but invain. These things cant be hidden. He saw and was sad. Devanum poi ille, he told her. For some people, friends matter. Very much. Theirs was a calm, modest, beautifully kept house. Its serenity absorbs your troubled mind and imparts peace. I remember having stayed there a long time ago- maybe 15 years before. Indira chechi looks beautiful at even this age. It runs in their family, I believe. Even Leela chechi, Aravindans wife has aged so gracefully. They carry their deep sorrows in their face. They don’t hide it. It is the sadness that makes their faces so beautiful and mesmerising, I understood. It glows in the beauty of their sorrow. I touched her feet, hoping that I can also carry my sorrows in my face and become better. The pain the loss the tragedy when exposed in a subtle manner makes it beautiful. My Father had a very close association with Aravindan, and later on I became close to Leela chechi his wife and other family members, Anila, Indira, KKutty, Radha, Sankaran etc. It gives me pride to say that Aravindan was my local guardian while I was doing Architecture in College of Engineering, Trivandrum from 83-89. They would call me over to spend the holidays at their beautiful house, at Thycaud, which was remodelled by LBaker, by the previous owner, from whom they had purchased the house. The relationship continued bonding stronger than ever, when I joined Govt service in Trivandrum. During one such occasion, when Aravindanmammen returned from Calcutta, while he was working on Vasthuhara, he brought me a beautiful simple cream coloured cotton saree, which I still treasure amongst my prized possessions of gifts. Leela chechi had an awesome collection of cotton and handloom sarees, all selected by AM, and I was privileged to wear most of them to office. Some must have wondered about the vast collection I had, since I never wore the same one again. During that period, in the early 90’s, leela Chechi and me, had to face personal calamity, which altered our lives forever, for which we needed recluse to come to terms, with the pain it gave us. We joined the group of pilgrims, to undertake a one month tour to different holy and religious places throughout India, and that too by a mini bus accommodating thirty people. It was a trip, I should say, and how one undertook it, in the most simplest manner with bare minimum facilities, but with absolutely no difficulties, still baffles me. We started off from Thirunakkara Maidan, at kottayam, proceeded to Guruvayoor, Mookambika, Ajantha , Ellora, Dwaraka, Pushkar, Delhi, Kedarnath, Badrinath, Yamunotri, Gangotri, Haridwar, Somnath, Hyderabad, Rameshwaram, Kanchipuram, Kanyakumari, and ending at Trivandrum. There were old , young, male , female, Brahmin, Shudra, religious person, atheist, self centered, generous people, and all kinds. It was not that we all enjoyed like a college excursion tour, but we adjusted to each others eccentricities, followed the dictum of Give and take, and most of all, shared whatever we had amongst ourselves. For me, more than the religious aspect, a chance to see and enjoy the marvellous architecture in different places and to feel the warmth of the various places and people was what enchanted me. We stayed in inns, annexed to the temples, had food voluntarily given by Temple authorities- annadanam, or slept in motels which had only the basic necessities. We mostly slept on floor, and sometimes inside the bus, crammed in sitting position with our minimum luggage, and carried out our daily ablutions in the nearby river or stream. People had different names for my Father, as he was different to different people. Vasu, Madathi vasu, MV Devan, Devettan, Vasuvettan, Acharyan, Achan, Apoopa, Acha, Angeru , D ( his pseudyname way back in 1950’s ), Thasmai, Devan mash, Devan Sir. Different names for the multifaceted personality he was. Life, I have understood, is merciless in getting back its dues, that it has loaned us. Is Life such a sarcastic phenomenon that it keeps a meticulous tab to visit us often with its gift paper wrapped parcels of misfortune that we ordinary mortals simply can’t handle anymore. It has just been a few months since the person- my Father, on whom I depended most, throughout my Life, has left me. Maybe the pain of the loss remained frozen inside. Like all the abnormal things that happen around us, the demons must have remained Dormant; till they get a proper moment when they pounce upon our Soul and devour us ferociously, thrusting the sickled claws into our already bruised existence, and enjoying the moments of gratification, while we writhe in our powerless furtherance of our Life. Fate has come knocking again in the form of a rainbow. As I stand on this cliff, I have two options. Either, I jump or catch the rainbow. Dont jump, I seemed to hear my parents whisper, we in heaven won’t be able to catch you. With intense pain, I realize that rainbows cannot be touched. Nor owned by the eyes for a long time. t is for everyone. For the world. Not to be possessed by an ordinary mortal. But I cannot go back to the old world as the same person. I have changed. Or rather Life and Time has changed me. They gave me a third option. Yes, always there is a third option, but it can be the most difficult one. Either this way, that way, or nowhere. I chose nowhere. No more do I want to see the rainbow. Something infinitely beautiful has died in me. I close the doors of the glass prison. And throw away the key down the cliff. No one in this earth is going to find it again. I turn back, with my eyes closed. When the world sees me again, I will just be a shadow. A ghost. A living ghost. Some demons have been exorcised . And they have become me. The entity has become one. When I smile, I laugh, I speak, don’t trust me, because I don’t trust myself. And I wear a mask. ‘If you wear a mask long enough, you begin to forget who you are beneath it’ unknown quote. It suits me. I have not yet met a photographer who can take the photo of my soul. It would be a most horrendous one. And that is me. I am tired of fighting the demons. It is better to become one. Whatever you see in the photo is not me . It is fake. It is misleading, Just taken by a marvellous camera, that makes everything it sees through its lens beautiful. Reverse it and see the negative. That is me. If you find a demon in me call me Shalini Demon. If you see a bit of good in me, call me what my Father named me. Shalini Devan. The crimson red dot has dissolved and flows down from my forehead.- a convenient and comfortable lie I proclaim to the World for the reason why my eyes are red- that which I fiercely hide from the World through tinted glasses. I close my eyes and then open. I can’t help smiling, because I see u and I together. Strange abnormality, in a seemingly normal looking person you may wonder. Look down at your keyboard. U and I is always together. U the reader and I the writer. Throughout the centuries typewriter has been invented, it has been like this. U – the Alive and I the Dead. “What is it that has given you the deepest pain”, I recall the question asked by the interviewer, KN Shaji, the journalist to my Father years before. With his eyes locked in a distance gaze, he answered, “Dukam theevramakunanthu athinte swakaryathayilanu. Athangine irikatte”.( Pain becomes intense, when it is not shared. Let it remain a secret). We never knew to this day what was it that haunted him so deeply that he could not even speak about it. He always remained a pillar of strength to his daughters, making us helplessly and hopelessly lean against him in our times of misfortune. Now that he is no more, the demons have begun revisiting the dark corners of mind. Yes, I too cannot speak of the darkest fear, nor of the deepest pain. ‘So many people are shut tight inside themselves like boxes; yet they would open up, unfolding, quite wonderfully, if only you were interested in them’. Sylvia plath. But some can never open up, perhaps for a very long time. There is no beauty if we keep our gratitude hidden. I thank everyone who have touched my life with your golden wand. For the whole world to see. Dedicated to all the living and dead Senorittas Shalini M Devan Daughter of MV Devan, who Lived here in this World and never Died in the Hearts of all those who Loved and Respected him. PS. It is not clear whether all the characters, incidents and images really existed as most are in outer world. Until we get a technology to communicate like ghostbook or wazupinheven, we may not be able to verify the accuracy of the hallucinations. ഹൃദയത്തിന്രോമാഞ്ചംസ്വരരാഗഗംഗയായ് പകരുന്നമണിവീണമൂകമായി(2) തകരുന്നതന്തുവില്തളരാതെഎന്നെന്നും തഴുകുന്നകൈകള്കുഴഞ്ഞുപോയി മധുമാസമേളത്തിന്അന്ത്യത്തില്നേര്ത്തൊരു തിരശ്ശീലമന്ദമായ്ഊര്ന്നുവീഴ്കെ ആ....ആ......ആ..ആ...ആ..(ഹൃദയത്തിൻ.....) അവസാനദിവസത്തില്അവസാനനിമിഷത്തില് അടരുന്നപാതിരപ്പൂവുപോലെ ആരോരുമോരാതെന്ഹൃദയത്തില് തലചായ്ച്ചെന്ആരോമലാളിന്നുറക്കമായി ഒരുനേര്ത്തലനത്തിന്നിഴല്പോലുമെത്താത്ത അവസാന നിദ്രയില് ആണ്ടുപോയി(
Posted on: Tue, 07 Oct 2014 13:25:17 +0000
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