Bangalore Diaries - The premonsoon frenzy

When you come back home after a week long holiday, all you want is your own little pillow, a good book, a cup of chai in your hands and some blissful sleep. But the skies in Bangalore are determined to keep me awake all night long. The skies open up, there is thunder everywhere, flashes of lightning and the rains tumble down, their decibel levels shutting out all other sounds for the night.

I lie in bed listening to the rain, a constant companion in the dark, drumming its way on the balcony, shaking the plants out of their reverie . In the morning when I wake up, the sky is still wrapped in the shades of night. The downpour is a drizzle, but the clouds look smug as if they are hiding in their layers, an entire thunderstorm, which they will let loose when it pleases them.  The bamboo plants are all dancing, showing off their new coat of green. The asian koel has not stopped calling . And even the usual morose rock pigeons are showing some signs of emotions. I hear a medley of various sounds, all from the comfort of my bed.

A new month, a new season begins. Growing up in Madras, monsoons to me have always been cyclonic in nature. The trees dance to the cosmic drama and the rains rip through the city, leaving their mark everywhere. The seas snarl, the clouds threaten the earth - nature seems to be fighting its own private battle.

But to me, as a child, cyclones were all about rain holidays. As soon as the water flooded the roads, I used to look eagerly from my window and see if  a board announcing a holiday was put up outside my school located next door. It was only during the monsoons that I felt important . The phone calls would never end . Everybody called me to ask if it was a holiday and I used to feel smug, even proud that I had a wee bit of information that no one else in my class had and I was the first to pass them around. Cyclones were also about endless power cuts, water flooding inside the house, colds and coughs, but then to us kids, it was about watching a paper boat float or get crushed by the coconut tree drowned in a puddle of water.

I went to Mumbai to study and monsoons took a whole new meaning. The drive from Marine Drive to Worli Sea Face to Bandra in the night,  just to see the sea getting wild, throwing its waves up on the rocks, spraying us with its white foam on the first day of the rains is a memory that I hold close to me. The rest of the memories are all about offices and roads getting flooded in the monsoons as we hurry home and watch the fury from the windows.

In Bangalore, however the rains are more romantic. The drama starts sometimes in my own room . Its mid afternoon and the walls suddenly darken. The light fades away and shadows of the plants dancing to the tune of the winds indicates a change in the mood of nature. The balconies and the windows open up and the premonsoon jugalbandi between the winds, the clouds, the rains begin. Thunder and lightning joins in , raising the tempo as hails take over sometimes from the rains. It's a theatrical performance, a musical that steals your blues away and a dance that keeps you on your toes.

I love the pre-monsoons to the monsoons. Its unpredictable, uncontrollable and the energy rubs on to you. Sometimes there is no foreplay. The frenzied passion from the skies just flows and it just bursts out on to the earth. It ends as abruptly as it begins, but it leaves you with a sense of anticipation . The monsoons on the other hand are more staid, predictable and constant and lacks the drama of the premonsoon and hence, I just wait for it to finish its routine and leave.

Rains in the plains, cities, seas, forests and hills are all different experiences. A month ago, I was in kashmir, taking in the onslaught of the rains as they drenched me even as the gentle snow fell into my hands at Gulmarg. Sitting on a pony and climbing a slushy alpine forest in Yousmarg, the rains were far more gentle here as my pony stopped by at a little stream to quench its thirst, even as it nodded in approval to the drizzle. Soaking in the moment, my mind wandered to various destinations where rains have brought in various connotations to emotions - from love to anger.

The breeze visits me as I finish writing this. The birds and the squirrels are all enjoying this morning after. A light drizzle still continues. The traffic on the road steadily increases. I need another cup of tea now. The pre monsoons will soon give away to the monsoons and the drama will end. 
 

Nostalgia

I met a college friend yesterday after a gap of nearly 12 years and we created quite a riot.Needless to say, we cracked up over men and matters, women and their foibles and people who had walked in and out of our lives. We spent some time remembering "our aunty" who took care of us, even though we were just PGs ..and we wondered how we managed to retain our sanity in that mad world called media , in a chaotic city called Bombay, which was then home to us;we were the homeless, trying to seek a career and an identity.. For many years, after I left Bombay, I always felt that I carried a part of it in me and I often attribute the city for moulding me and giving me a sense of confidence and individuality..anyways thats for another post..

Coming back to yesterday's evening, we drifted into a blissful past where responsibility just meant to keep our heads above trouble, learning a bit about our careers and people who shaped our careers and to maintain a simple lifestyle with a measly salary . Yet, we were fiercely independent, keen on charting our own destinys and yet learning to enjoy life and its moments..We were a bit naive, says my friend . Not like today's generation, I agree, even though they are probably a decade or more younger than us. And yet, I believe that in our innocence, was our maturity..we were not so insecure, not yet bitten by peer pressure, no wannabe lifestyles for us, no uncalled for attitude . Silent and determind, mad in our own way,we were probably learning to balance a career with independence.We were at the age where we were learning to differentiate between boyfriends and friends who were boys, understanding that flings are not relationships and we were quick to pick up the pieces and move on... We didnt fall by the wayside, yet were grounded enough to realize that ambition was made of sterner stuff and we lived our life according to our terms

The evening passed and with it, a montage of life during the last decade. A decade that was probably a lifetime to us. The vignettes from our past took us on a heady journey where we were on a high and yet not drunk. We were sailing, flying and buzzing past life and yet, when the evening ended, life came back to a standstill. A full stop in many ways. And thats why I say nostalgia is a dangerous thing. It takes you to a real world, a world that features you and yet, a world that you will probably never see again . It hurts even more if its a happier world. It is illusionary, yet not an illusion but it creates a void. Nostalgia chases you all the time..If its a happy memory, we cling to it and are unable to let go. If its sad, well, you dont even want to think about it, even if nostalgia catches up with you . It sends you into a fool's paradise and then takes you down teary lanes and makes you wake up to emptiness.Ultimately it leads you nowhere..

For Aunty..

Its a tragic day for me today. I just lost someone who is very close to me - my aunty, who was one of the reasons I cherished my life in Mumbai..I remember going to her house as a naive 22 year old with no roof over my head,thrown out of my PG of 3 months.It was my first job in Mumbai , with a princely salary of 5K and my friend, Sujata was staying over there. She told me I could stay for 15 days till I found a roof and I slept the first night on the floor in the hall. She apologised to me the next day and told me I could stay with her in her room if I didnt mind and from that day, a deep bond grew between us. We shared our joys and sorrows, cracked up over bhel and boondi raitha, watched movies, had custard and cakes in the nights, bitched about boyfriends and bosses and travelled to quite a few places...I changed cities, but almost every job brought be back to Mumbai again..She would say," Tumhare liye mere ghar me hamesha ek bed hai.." It was more than just that.

In today's day and age, a lot of people come and go out of our lives.Many friendships, relationships break over silly reasons of ego and anger. And the memories fade away.Today,a relationship died but my aunty lives on..my landlady who for a few thousand rupees built a strong emotional bond with me, tolerated my angst and temper, laughed and cried with me and always wished me well..whenever I had a new job ,she would say, " Tum mere ghar se jaa rahe ho..sab achcha hi hoga.." I left her house day before yesterday and will never see her again.Aunty, ham aapko bahut miss kar rahe hain..

Impressions -2

The world was my home. A haven of comfort, love and affection . What we probably understand as security and contentment today .

It was a huge bungalow with several rooms, halls , verandahs. The voices were still there..the laughter .The boom of the old grandfather clock, the shrill ring of the ancient black telephone, the sun filtering through the grilled windows and the green mosaic floors ..images that still linger in memory , trying to forge a connection today to things that do not exist .

There were hardly any walls – spaces just flowed into each other..doors opened into more spaces called rooms, halls, verandahs.. The verandahs led to the lawns, a vast expanse of green bordered by the trees, the flowers...Voices from haystacks and garages still echo as we, kids used to scurry around and play hide and seek. Except for some bedrooms, everything was open ..life as well . I could see myself - an eight year old, running from one room to another, missing a foot here, jumping from the stairs, a sense of freedom , of belonging ..

The power of transfiguring is that its worse than demolition. When you transform something beautiful and ancient laden with memories into something thats far away from the original, you take the life out of it..Its like living without the ability to feel or think. I believe that you need to have a twisted mind to kill something like that ...memories are living organisms and by transfiguring it, you have killed them .There is no grandfather clock....the boom is only for certain ears to listen, the green mosaic is now a dull yellow , there is no sun, the windows are now walls, there are no spaces and there is a clear NO ENTRY spelt everywhere . Its all closed now ...Walled. There is no laugher. Just silence . Its a funny feeling as I stepped inside . A feeling of intrusion , a feeling that I was trespassing . Yet ,it was home once, for more than a decade .And yet, it no longer today is, though its still within the family

memories

Its pouring in Bangalore and its well past midnight . I am becoming an insomniac . The echo of the thunder keeps interrupting the silence . Or else the silence is deafening . I can just hear my fingers go tup tup on the keyboard .Memories are choking my mind today . Not letting me sleep of people I have never seen for years , of incidents and memories of my self ,my emotions ,my reactions .. I 'm tired of these memories chasing me . Words fail ...elsewhere the echo is heard .