Comebacks and family

I am sorry dear readers, for already failing my promise to write at least three times a week if not more and it’s been so long since I last wrote here. Yes I never made any staunch promises or written vows – you might wonder when did I mention this, but that’s what I had in my mind when I started off writing this blog. In my defense, all I can say is that I had once mentioned that I would like to make this into something like a virtual diary where writing was more important than who read. And that again I must admit that even within these few days I have had readers years older than me, dropping by my blog and even taking the trouble to leave their comments, helping me sort out how to write and then maintain a blog. There are others who have left encouraging comments and then there has been my good old cousin who still keeps her hopes up regarding this blog and of course me.

Coming to the present scenario in my life, I just managed to earn a massive compliment from my Aunt when she said that I have mastered the art of playing sitar (beginner’s level) and am qualified to move on to my next level of training. Here let me tell you all the story of my family. My grandfather was a Physiologist who also took a keen interest in music and played the Sitar as well. He made sure that his children also got a chance to get a shot at playing some instrument or singing. My oldest Aunt plays the Sitar – she is the one teaching me to play the Sitar. If she wanted she could have taken music as her chosen career because she was quite good at it and even played for the All India Radio from the early age of eight or even less I think. My other aunt used to sing, but yes, it is referred to in our family in past tense (pun intended). My uncle played the Tabla (the classical Indian percussion) and still does. My Dad used to play the Sarod but that again is referred to in past tense. So you see in my family, at least my father’s side everybody is quite musically inclined. My two cousins – one plays the Esraj and the other one dances.

Nobody thought that I could get myself to sit down and learn how to play the Sitar, let alone play and play well on top of that. My half chopped scarred finger was now starting to give trouble. Soon after the operation when the wounds healed we noticed that I couldn’t straighten my finger. The doc told us that the ligament has dried up and was shriveling which was pulling the finger back and therefore I couldn’t straighten it. A lot of things were tried. Doctors even suggested physiotherapy but I was an impatient kid. Soon my parents’ patience wore out – Dad having to make both ends meet bringing up three kids with a sales job and Mum trying to juggle school and our lives. That’s when my Aunt suggested that we try Sitar. That way I will learn to play an instrument as well as be able to exercise and stretch my finger.

It’s been two years now and I can see the improvement myself. I can stretch my finger much more than I could in the beginning. Also, I have overheard people saying that I have become a lot more patient, can concentrate better and of course can play the Sitar quite well for my age. I think that’s where family comes into the picture. We may all live separately but we are always there next to each other in good times as well as the bad. We take these things for granted most of the time but I think it’s something I can easily forget. Obviously I don’t say it out aloud but I definitely feel it.

Remembering Puri

Today I am suddenly reminded of my trip to Puri. The water, the salt and the warm sand. May be the it is the cold winter chills that suddenly reminded me of it...

And suddenly the rickshaw swerved to the left to tackle a sharp bend in the road which I initially thought what it was) and I was left gasping for breath at the sight of it. Suddenly, life seemed framed within a movie shot in slow motion. The camera closing in, the roar of the waves breaking on the shore was the only sound that was captured by the novice eardrums that I was the owner of.

I really did not believe that this trip was actually going to happen. I thought that this might another of those big promises that elders make at the beginning of every summer. Yeah, this is not the first time that such a promise had been made only that this time it was for real. I seriously did not believe that we were going to Puri until I was actually sitting on the train. My twin insisted that she won’t believe it until the train started moving. So to beat her resolve I said that I won’t believe it until I see the sea for real. (and hence the dramatic beginning with which I tried to start this entry).

If you want me to be the regular tourist then I suggest you read no further and check out some more useful websites. But, if you want some inside info about how to strike a deal with the nulias (the life guards who also make some money taking people out into the open sea on inflated rubber tubes) or how to covet the best position from where a four feeter can clearly see the changing of the flag in the Jagannatha mandir, trust me, you are in safe hands.

I don’t know how to swim (at all). Well that’s another tragic story that I will narrate some other time. For now, let me just say that my height played truant with my learning to swim. But swimmer or not, I have a brave heart and so I resolved to hit the biggest of waves and scare the shit out of mum and dad. (oh btw, that’s the newest addition to my ten year old lexicon). Well, of course that never happened eventually. To tell you all the truth the huge frothy white waves that crashed all around me scared the shit out of me! I almost gagged in a whole lot of salty sand-filled mouthfuls of water that I managed to gather in my ten year old contraption. But shitty scared or not I came out of the water and out of the beach (eventually) quite tanned. As for truths, it’s not tanned for us Indians – it’s burnt skin and nothing else!

First Day and on...

Oh that day was one heck of a day. Well at least that was what I was told. My mum was rushed to the hospital with the first alarm. Talking about alarms, I have often wondered how does one get to hear the alarm. I mean, an alarm is an alarm, right? It should make a hell lot of noise and at least someone (like me who has quite an ear for any kind of alarms having created so many myself) should get to hear it. But no, nothing of the sort really happens. Anyway, coming back to my story (which of course is not exactly first hand, I must admit, having been handed down to me from my Mum), I recall of course a strong smell of something that filled the entire room, the very same smell that hit me when I was taken to the O.T. for stitching up my finger.

Mum says that doctors force the babies to cry as soon as they are born and I can bet on my life that that day I could well hear not just one but two voices screaming out loud. Well that was quite a pair we made, my sister and I – the troublesome twins, the storm after the silence (my eldest sibling, who is a darling I must say).

Then the next few days I heard quite a few voices all sounding that they were coochy-cooing with me or my sister. I was one selfish brat even then. Didn’t like it at all when they showered too much of attention to my twin. I would throw my arms up in the air, at least tried to make it look that way with all the cloth that was wrapped around me, and threw a fit. My sister was the quieter one that way, only that now I realize that she had very cunningly left me alone as she knew that the next whatever years are left of my life, it will be payback time for me.

But of all the voices that I heard, there was always that special voice that calmed me every time it cooed sweet nothings into my ears, or those soft caring arms that held me close. I could hear her heart-beat and it was right then that I had decided that I would also set my heart beat at the same rhythm. There was also another voice which sounded quite younger than the others and I loved playing around that finger that I usually associated with that voice.

Slowly there were pictures in my life! There was that heavenly smiling lady whose eyes seemed to never leave my sight. Then there was that playful finger who turned out to be my older sister. There was also a deep voice that sounded awful proud when he talked about me. It didn’t take me long to figure that this was my family – my Mum, older sister, Dad and oh yeah my twin too.

My granny says that the first sight of me that she remembers is nothing but a bundle of cloths that wrapped the tiny body that slept peacefully without a care in the world. I have a confession here to make – I must say that I am terribly jealous of that tiny baby wrapped in rolls of cloth than this ten year old giving his worldly advice on everything around him. It’s like I have a huge weight that I carry around on my back; the funny thing is nobody can see that huge whatever that weighs me down so much. But I guess that’s one of the prices you pay of growing up.