Entey paalu karan..

Sometimes, when I couldn’t sleep at night at all, I  go for an early morning ( very early 4.30 am) walk..so that though my physical body is exhausted from lack of sleep, I feel fresh..
4.30 is a very odd time..everything is quiet..the people who work night shift hasn’t returned and those sleeping hasn’t woken up yet to face the day..
Occassionally I meet the resident wallaby..and without fail..we ( the wallaby and I) scare the living day light out of each other. I kind of want to tell the wallaby that I am a pukka vegetarian and it really need not be afraid of me..
Usually it is like this.. I walk quietly..looking around to catch a glimpse of the wallaby and then out of nowhere this thing would jump out like the jack in the box and run towards the forest..Ideally the brave Methran Thambi’s grand daughter should stand steady like a vadi (stick) and watch the beast in action..in this case, I am looking for a pillar or a tree to lean on and give myself a CPR..

Apart from the wallaby, the only other thing I see in my morning walk is the Paul’s milk delivery van. It was very reassuring to see another human..even if he is driving an old battered milk van..
If you grew up in Kerala, then you probably know the joy of lifting the foil tab and licking the cream from the top of the milk bottle before Amma catches you !!
So I called the phone number that was written on the van..it took 3 messages before he called me back. I gave my address and on the day I was to get the milk delivered..I woke up early.. all excited..and waited and waited..
No milk.. No phone calls
Another round of messages.
He calls me back a week later to tell me that he got lost.

It took a while..and it was frustrating..How hard it is to find a house in a street he is already delivering the milk to? ( and patience is not really my virtue)
Finally he managed to find my house.
I met him the first day he delivered the milk.
He has learning disabilities..and I felt bad for getting angry with him..

Eventually the supermarket price war started..All my neighbours started buying milk from supermarket..( I don’t blame them..It is half the price!)
I still buy milk from him..
He is earning an honest income and it is not his fault that supermarkets are undercutting in the name of giving better deals to customers..

All was well till the week before Christmas.. He takes Christmas leave ( 3 weeks) and I remembered in the middle of the night that I had forgotten to leave his Christmas gift outside. I always buy him a bottle of wine. I got up ( 3 am), didn’t want to wake the kids up, so didn’t switch on the light, found the bottle of wine in the cupboard, opened the door quietly and left the bottle outside..Some where at the back of my head, there was this uneasy feeling..you know that feeling.. something isn’t right kind of feeling..I was a bit drunk..and I thought it is the alcohol in my blood doing their thing..so I left it at that..

Next morning..it all came to me..
I gave him a bottle Brut Imperial champagne..instead of the cuvee ..
My champagne.. the one I bought for myself.

Erinja kallum kodutha bottleum

There was nothing much I could do about that..
But my milko..He is one happy man..he came the next day to personally thank me..apparently no one ever bought him a bottle of champagne..( and you think I would tell him that it was an honest mistake??)

He is happy..and I was happy for him..
But now..he insists that we drink milk !!!!..earlier if there is milk in the fridge, I call the night before and tell him I don’t need milk the next day.. Now no such luck..Right now there is 3 X 2 litters of milk in the fridge..and my kids refuse to drink any more payasam..and I already have three packets of paneer..

If anyone has any ideas what I can do with 6 liters of milk..let me know.

Finally, I think there is an answer..

I struggled so much yesterday trying to write a post..

Following are few of  the drafts that were auto saved in blogger..

Attempt 1.
I am scared..
I can actually see the grin on your face each and every time I told you that fear is not my middle name for I am Methran Thambi’s grand daughter..( telling that to a true and true naga warrior)

The name Methran Thambi was my amulet..and being the warrior that you are, it never ceased to amuse you.

You live in me..with every breath I take.. and yet I worry that..with the years that seems to slip through in to some sort of black hole, I will forget things about you.. I am sure your family will remember you..but surely, it wouldn’t be how I remember you..
I remember how you insisted to count my eyelashes because I am a Malayalee and am blessed with abundant eye lashes.. You made me keep my eyes open, so you could count them..and I did..it took a while for me to learn that you really were not counting..you were enjoying, getting me to keep my eyes open without blinking!

Memories of you  is like chewing the bubblegum and blowing bubbles..you do it gingerly..worrying every second that bubble will burst and you will end up with gum splattered on your face and lips..

Attempt 5
This is the 5th attempt of writing since this evening.
I don’t ever spend hours thinking and writing.. Usually each blog post is type as I go.. including the spelling and grammatical mistakes that are so part of my blog. ( I could read what I type, but I don’t. Every word that I wrote came from my heart and why would I want to read it again?)
Two things I wanted to write..and both gets mangled in to a mess and I can’t seem to separate it..so perhaps this post makes only sense to me..

I have this fear…
Ok, I can see your sheepish grin.. each time I told you I am Methran Thambi’s grand daughter and am not scared of anything..
The thing is..you live in me..with every breath that I take..
I feel I am responsible to keep your memory alive..and I worry that, I might forget something about you.. Yet, there are things about you, only I know. I wanted to keep that..in my little chest..

You know, No one knows about Kouros.. I never told anyone about it. I never bought it for anyone either.. It was your scent..
Each time I think of you.. I wonder if you knew your time on earth was short.. Was that why you were so different from everyone else? At that time the guys in our college were using Old spice and Brut..and you were using Kouros. I am sure even now a lot of people wouldn’t have heard of Kouros..but you were different..

Attempt 12..
This post seems to be the most difficult one I have ever written..
I am down with a bad case of flu and am stuck at home. My brain seemed to be in a Claritin induced haze..Ideally, that would have been a good excuse.. ..
But that is not the reason why I am finding it hard to write the blog today.

I want to write..so much about you..because my biggest fear is that when I dredge my memories the advancing years might do what it always does..hide things that were once important.

You live in me..with every breath I take..yet I worry that if I forget a fraction of a tiny detail, I am doing the biggest injustice to you.
But then again, there are things only I know..and I wanted it to be like that.
I never told anyone about Kouros..all these years..till I blogged about it last week.
I never bought Kouros for anyone..I couldn’t. It was your scent..

The truth is..I can’t fill the void you left behind.. I tried..trust me..I tried..
.

and finally the answer..
I think I have hyperthymesia..I spend all of yesterday reading about Eidetic memory and Hyperthymesia..

A lot of it makes sense..and a lot doesn’t.

I have high IQ.
I do not think I have OCD..but I am a perfectionist. I like things arranged in a certain order, however I don’t spend hours trying to make things perfect.
I also need to cook food..to smell it..just the way I remember it.. ( Eidetic + olfactory) and can spend hours looking for that perfect recipe that can replicate the smell I am looking for..If I want to remember some events..I simply cook what I ate that particular time..and I can teleport myself to the same moment..even after 30 years.
I know most of you would laugh when you read this.. that I don’t live in the past..I don’t spend an obsessive amount of time thinking of the past..however..my mind is like a continuous movie ..
I woke up this morning thinking about my mother and how much I miss her.. there was a photo in Malayala manorama this morning..a grieving mother hugging her daughter..and her arms are visible.. and that was all I needed to think of Amma’s hands..I can see the progression of age..I can see her arm when I was young.. smooth skin adorned with her gold bangles..I can see each and every bangle..even the broken one..to the time she took of her bangles..to the time we bought her those thick single bangles that were the fashion in mid 90’s ..two knobby projections meeting in the center,,red and green lacquer paint..to the time she came to Brisbane..with no bangles again, but full of wrinkles.. I can even see the burn mark in her arm.. when the oil splashed while she was making achapam..

The only thing that doesn’t make me a true hyperthymestic is.. I don’t relate to dates truly..I remember historical events..and I know what I was doing when the things that I consider are important happened. I know what I was wearing..but I don’t know the dates..( However.. I used to know all the history dates..including the DOB of famous people at one time..Not anymore)

So back to my issue with writing..
I worry that I will forget something about the love of my life.. and somethings I  want to keep for myself..it is my private movie..
and I know there really is no escape.

I am scared..
I can actually see the grin on your face each and every time I told you fear is not my middle name for I am Methran Thambi’s grand daughter..( telling that to a true and true naga warrior)

The name Methran Thambi was my amulet..and being the warrior that you are, it never ceased to amuse you.

You live in me..with every breath I take.. and yet I worry that..with the years that seems to slip through in to some sort of black hole, I will forget things about you.. I am sure your family will remember you..but surely, it wouldn’t be how I remember you..
I remember how you insisted to count my eyelashes because I am a Malayalee and am blessed with abundent eye lashes.. You made me keep my eyes open, so you could count them..and I did..it took a while for me to learn that you really were not counting..you were enjoying, getting me to keep my eyes open without blinking!

Memories of you  is like chewing the bubblegum and blowing bubbles..you do it gingerly..worrying every second that bubble will burst and you will end up with gum splattered on your face and lips..

This is the nth time I opened the blogger to write a post…
My usual style is to open the blogger, type, click publish ( including the spelling and grammatical mistakes that are so part of my blog) and done.
I am a perfectionist and I could easily avoid the mistakes, if I would only read what I typed..but each word that I write came straight from my heart and why would I want to read them again ( and torment my aching soul)?

I am actually down with a bad case of flu..and am stuck at home…and my brain seems to be in a Claritin induced haze..

There are things I want to write..but it is not coming the way I want it to be..so after the nth time I decided I will write something else.

My old age..
I have reserved my old age just for me..
You see, my childhood I lived for my sisters and amma. I am no Bharath Matha..but my family needed me then and I was there for them..I don’t consider what I did for my family as a sacrifice. It wasn’t. It was something that needed to be done and I did..

Much of my adulthood.. I lived for my children..Again it was not a sacrifice.. I did it with all my heart. I was there for them, every step of the way..

So that leaves my old age..
I want that to be just for me..
I want to rage,  rage against the dying light..

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

This post seems to be the most difficult one I have ever written..
I am down with a bad case of flu and am stuck at home. My brain seemed to be in a Claritin induced haze..Ideally, that would have been a good excuse.. ..
But that is not the reason why I am finding it hard to write the blog today.

I want to write..so much about you..because my biggest fear is that when I dredge my memories the advancing years might do what it always does..hide things that were once important.

You live in me..with every breath I take..yet I worry that if I forget a fraction of a tiny detail, I am doing the biggest injustice to you.
But then again, there are things only I know..and I wanted it to be like that.
I never told anyone about Kouros..all these years..till I blogged about it last week.
I never bought Kouros for anyone..I couldn’t. It was your scent..

The truth is..I can’t fill the void you left behind.. I tried..trust me..I tried..
.

I wanted to write about the rain yesterday..It was too painful..
So here it is..

As a child.. I spend hours watching the rain..I was not allowed to play in the rain. There was this notion that rain made you sick and I was forbidden to play in the rain.

Chengannur house had a parapet around the veranda..it was painted red..bright red.
Ammachi would lean against the wall and stretch her legs on the parapet. My favourite place was to lean on the pillar that formed the entrance arch. I did dream of inheriting the house one day and getting ammachi’s place on the parapet!!
The parapet had so many tiny cracks on the top..I loved to see if there is any pattern..anything that I can use to link those cracks. I imagined those cracks to be roads..highways..sometimes I thought they were the rivers..It was nice to feel the crack with the tip of my fingers and follow them to the end..to imagine that, the world ended where my fingers ended.

When it rained the water would start dripping from the roof..form a water curtain..you can sit on the parapet wall and swing your leg back and forth to break..distort..destroy the curtain..but the moment you take your leg away, the curtain comes right back .. as if nothing happened.

There was a huge mango tree.. ( the same tree I climbed and was beaten and bitten! I am sure I wrote about that episode) right in front of the house. Except when the wind was really strong, the tree stood practically still..as though someone was playing ‘statue’ and forgot to say ‘over’

Then there is nadumuttam  ( no correct translation, courtyard?) framed by two coffee plants..I don’t remember when coffee bloomed.. but every now and then when I went home,I would find the plants  laden with red berries..Coffee plants were the hippies..they danced even with the slightest sign of wind.

Beyond the naadumuttam is the parambu  with all the assorted thengu and mavu (coconut and mangoe trees)
Beyond the parambu is the kandam (paddy fields)
On the other side of the paddy fields was a neighbour’s house..(You can’t see the house sitting on the parapet wall..but in the night, there always used to be one solitary light outside that house..the only sign  that you are really not alone!
On a rainy day.. I sit on the parapet wall and watch the rain..but there was only so far you could see..it wasn’t endless..

But that day..in Madras.. sitting with him..sharing the warmth..the heady smell of kouros..and watching the rain.. the view was endless..
nokkethatha doorathu..kannum nattu irunnu

I remember the morning rounds..
Seeing you at the hospital as soon as the morning rounds started was a surprise..especially because, had the prof seen you..you would have been in big trouble..you were wearing your favourite Hawaiian shirt, shorts and sandals..not following the hospital dress code!! ( and obviously not planning to attend the clinics)
I remember the excitement of sneaking out.. ( and the logistics involved in getting a leave of absence)
The thing with you was… you never told  me in advance where we were going..
It was always impromptu.
That trip was to Madras..I can’t remember what train we took..It was one of those fast trains..
I can’t remember if we had anything to eat.. We would have had something to eat…and you must have had tea.. you loved drinking tea.
All I remember is laying down on your lap..and trying (pretending) so hard to read my book.. There were not many people in the train..and those that were, not very pleased to see us being together..and they kept giving us the ‘look’.
I should remember the book I was reading.. I don’t..
But I can still remember the smell of your cologne.. Kouros..
We reached Madras just as the sun was setting..
It was raining..( that wasn’t part of your plan)
But you didn’t come all the way to Madras to be defeated by the rain..
So we went..
to Marina beach..
We watched the rain..huddled underneath the statue of Vivekananda..soaked to the bone..
Till then.. for me.. rain was always something I listened to..
the dried leaves on the ground rustling and dancing in the wind..(announcing the impending rain)
wind whistling through the casuarina tree branches..
rain pitter pattering on the roof..
roll of thunder..
my grandmother frying dried tapioca chips..she always tapped the side of the wok with her spatula each time she stirred the chips in the hot oil….swish swish swish and a tap..

But sitting with you..that evening..I saw a different rain..

Your beautiful eyes sparkled..and you held me in your arms and  asked me to close my eyes and imagine the ocean before the storm..I imagined a postcard beach..clear blue sky..green palm trees ( may be coconut trees) white surf..and soft beach sand..foot prints..little kids..families..happiness..
Then I opened my eyes..
There were just the two of us..and the ocean was an angry monster..everything around me was painted gray..and yet my heart..it was filled to the brim..with the colours of the rainbow..

I still go to the beach when it rains..

Yesterday I made coconut dosai for dinner..
I have been searching for the recipe for years.. I  found the recipe here
It didn’t taste like what I had hoped for..
Nevertheless.. I was happy..

Cooking is like teleporting.. I can recreate the past..moment by moment….

Years ago, while searching for the Anjaneya temple ( legend says it was built by Arjuna) we got lost. We stopped by one of the halli (village) to ask for direction.

Modified Yamaha 350 cc bike, Naga rider  and a Mallu pillion rider..short hair..jeans..epitome of modern woman..more than enough to pique the curiosity of the villagers.
and the fact that we were medical students elevated our status even further.

We were invited to the village chief’s house for a meal…
The living  room was small and dark..
I don’t like dark places..I always felt the darkness in the room kind of close in on me and it feels like I am suffocating.
He knew that..
By choosing to sit outside on the veranda..he knew he was going to be the center of attraction..what with the whole village waiting outside to catch a glimpse of him..He still asked if we could sit outside..
We sat on the wooden bench outside..I can still see him sitting on that bench.. wearing my favourite red check shirt..( it took a while to find the perfect red check shirt , but I found it)..wiping the sweat off his forehead..enjoying a simple meal..Coconut dosai and chutney..
Dosai was very  soft and spongy..chutney was very hot..
He didn’t eat the chutney..much to the amusement of the chief.. that there are people in India who don’t eat spicy food!

Yesterday was also the first day of Chinese New Year.
Year of the dragon..
Of all the animals in the chines Zodiac.. I love dragons….I collect dragon stories.. I buy dragon tshirts for my son..( poor kid)
1988 was  a year of the dragon..Two things happened.. I got admission to do medicine..and I found true love..
(Year 2000.. I finished my master’s degree..and my son was born..)

It is that time of the year..nearly end of January..Uni exams starts in the 2nd week of Jan..practicals begin  in the 3rd week  and end 4th week..
I don’t know the date.
I don’t want to know the date.
But I know this..
I know..
that I was loved..
that there was someone who cared..who knew every one of my likes and dislikes..
Who loved me for what I am..

 The avocado tree I planted..

I had a clothes line here..and once found a big huge giant  snake when I came down to hang the clothes..though for all intents and purposes I am methran Thambi’s grand daughter, when it comes to snakes.. I am not so..From that day onwards, I hung the clothes upstairs on the balcony railings. There were also few bushes of wild roses..they smelled divine..I wanted to pluck the flowers, but because of my friend, the snake, I was too scared to go anywhere near the rose plants.. and I told myself..the flowers look pretty on the plant!!! ( much similar to the fox and the sour grapes)