Tag Archives: childhood

Onion-y Life!

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I am very, very aware of her pretty little face, right at the nape of my neck. She is breathing down on me in her futile attempt at belittling my already little self. I chose to ignore her hushed chuckles as I focus on the blade in hand. I try again, to get in the harder bitter shell.

“Arh! This is just wrong”, I hear her say, but I continue to peel any way.

I dig in my  sharp steel knife into the hardness of much awaited life. The fumes are sharp and flavor is bitter, I don’t notice when I begin to cry. I am done with hard sunny shell of becoming a baby and I can see the sweet layer of tiny steps.  I am getting impatient as I hear her snickering behind my back, I peel away the childhood and all the growing up days.

Oh dear lord!

Comes the rotten layer,  of lies, deceits and all the ugly things that come with college affairs. I wash my hands in lonely tears and get right back on my pealing race. There are sweet flavors of love, motherhood and growing old, but I am too busy getting to the core.  With every layer gone, the silence deepens,  I can’t guess why, she is no longer speaking. I feel the sadness grow, as I am left with nothing more. Surrounded by the shells and layers,  I went through life, like a chore. As I turn around, I see her sad face.  My life, looking up, as if to say,

“Yes, you are done,

but it wasn’t a race,

whatever happened to living and taking a moment to embrace?”

 

To Memories and Mom!

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Today, I took a break from my normal day and spent it wisely – mostly reading Dianne’s blog. I had been busy with my German classes and photography work, keeping myself away from my much-needed reading and writing dose.

Reading her blog made me wonder about many things and I ended up writing 2 stories. One of them I will share here, while other will have to wait.

I was reading an article ‘Memory-Go-Round’, in the said blog and it got me wondering about my first memory, unlike my school days, which I hated so much, I remember most of my younger years. I can recall my memories up to the time when I started talking.

My very first memory needs a bit clarification like,

–          Duppata is a piece of cloth used by women in my religion, to cover their head, which younger generation is gladly skipping these days.

–          While I love my father for standing by all his kids in the time of need, he hasn’t been the father or husband of the year all along.

–          I come from a large family, where my younger aunts(dad’s sisters), 4 of them, spent about 10 or more years with us till they got married, finally!

–          My mother lost her mom when she was 2 and life hasn’t been very kind to her after that.

–          Getting physically beaten, is sadly very common phenomena in my part of the world, to the extent, being slapped is considered a mere expression of affection, the other person holds for the victim. Kids are beaten by parents and wives by husbands, and as much as I hate to admit it, picture isn’t pretty even today.

Now, coming back to the first memory, “the very first thing I remember from my child hood is pulling my mother’s duppatta off of my aunts head, as she used to consider wearing my mom’s best of cloths her birth right, and I hated that from the start. I remember kicking her, hitting her, putting the best fight a young one can put to get her to give the piece of cloth up.  I remember screaming at her to never to touch it again.”, My mom thinks that time, i was around 2.

Thinking of Dianne’s article, I realized how much my first memory reflected my whole life. I have been a Daughter, a Sister, a Wife, a Manager, a Subordinate and much more, but the only thing I have done with all of my heart and strength is, to protect my mother.

Don’t get me wrong my mom is the strongest person I have ever met, but she seems to have immense tolerance for the people she loves and no one can save her from her self-chosen hell.  Ever since I was a kid, I used to tell her that I am actually her long-lost mother, who is here to take care of her.

I haven’t always been courageous in life, but I am glad when it came to protecting my mother, I never felt afraid.

I remember telling my dad to never hit my mother again and getting beaten up instead at 10.

I remember buying her treats from any penny I could save and later when I started earning, I loved buying presents for her for no reason at all.

I can never forget the day my otherwise shy mom told me about her health and how I dragged her to the doctor, knowing something was very wrong.

I am glad I was able to nurse her back to health from being taken down by that scary uterine cancer , and now she feels quite strong.

I have never cried in front of my mother, for I know how much my being strong means to her. I might fail at a thousand things, but my only wish is to never fail my mom.

Man who never died!

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I had imagined this day in my head numerous times, I thought I wouldn’t be able to stop crying, crying till the time my stomach felt sick, till my body had nothing else left to spare.

 But I didn’t.

 He was gone, and all I did was sigh!

 Sighed!

 As I replaced the receiver, I felt relieved. At least, He wont be bothered any more!

 I should have cried, bawled, for he was gone!

 I was mad at GOD, not for taking him but for the life he made him live and the way he made him die.

 I know he probably wasn’t the greatest father or may be the strongest human being, but he was the best Grand father in the whole wide world.

 He was the single most pleasant memory of my otherwise sick childhood. He was the one who turned me to books and story world.

 No one knew him like I did and all those secrets and stories were left in between, still waiting to be told.

 The oldest story he ever told me was his first childhood memory.

 How his mother had managed to bring him up, after his father’s sudden death. How the poverty was as common as a cheese burger today and staying alive was a miracle, no less.

His school days were magical! There were stories, of classmates haunted by past lives, strange animals and restless souls.  The teachers seemed like character out of different time and learning seemed like so much fun.

 I remembered how he told me about his Uncles and sisters.

How he missed my grandmother so very much.

He had lost his young wife – she was gone, even before he could know, she was sick.

He lost his eldest son at the age of 16, but he couldn’t say, he was hurt.

His faith in GOD was miraculous, I often argued with him, for not being there for my mother, and he would nod  and leave me to fuss.

He was always carrying my youngest cousin around as he was polio struck. He never complaint for having to nurse him or for when he kicked.  I didn’t understand why he did it, it wasn’t really his job.

He was this kindest, down to earth soul who never let any thing get to his head.

When I saw him suffer from throat cancer, I couldn’t help it, I was so angry with GOD, I know every one is going to die, why couldn’t he take him with less pain. He lost his voice, but we still shared our stories, I watched him fade away.

I remember asking GOD what was the point of his life, was he here to live a curse just like ‘Devrath‘?

It took me a while to find my answers as I was just a child myself. I saw myself growing and with each day, I looked more like my oldest crush! I couldn’t believe that out of all his offspring’s, his grandkids, I was the chosen one, who took after him. Even though he has been gone for more than a fifteen years now, but in me he will always live!

** Image is of Mary Pickford, thankfully borrowed from, http://elizs.tumblr.com/post/16006704518/legrandcirque-mary-pickford-writing-at-a-desk

Moving on…

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No matter how much I cribbed in the past, about the mundane of life, about hating the same routine and not getting to do new things, I  have learnt, I am not big on change either.

With every passing day, I am moving away and away from my life, the way it was 15 years ago and it kills me. Till about few years back I missed seeing Vespa’s & Bjaj’s on the roads and I was suddenly aware of every diminishing local repair shop for scooters, back in India. All the motor bikes had strategically removed scooters from the roads and along with it went, numerous Motor mechanics who worked for years just to fix these beauties. Its nothing new, once these very scooters had eliminated those harmless bicycles and their repair shops, just the same way.

If this is how it is suppose to be then why is it so hard to let go?

I hated my childhood, for I was always an ugly duckling, and but now, being a swan doesn’t feel any better either! I miss my childhood and  often wonder what is wrong with the kids today for not wanting to play outdoors, the way we used to?

I miss my Mom, My family, my home but most of all, I miss myself. I have hundreds of friends in my social networks on-line and on the phone, still why sitting here I feel I have never been lonelier.

Shouldn’t success make up for all the nostalgic feelings, that one might get along the way? I have never wanted any one this much, when I was sinking low in life, but sunny days seem to make me wish for company like never before.

I wanted to write something for Friday Fiction today, however I couldn’t even breath for all the nostalgia that was choking me down, I tried and I tried, but gave in to writing this instead. It’s a letter to an old friend whose name I have forgotten, a prayer to GOD I haven’t spoken to in a long time.

Please, Please come and be with me, just for one day!

***I am attaching a song, which is actually in my native tongue, however you don’t need to know the words to understand the pain of a guy, who is almost old and no longer sees what he had as a child.