Journey Of the Magi

Poets do speak for all of us. They make us feel that the poem is written for and about us. As I read T.S. Eliot’s ‘Journey of the Magi’, I find that I can relate to it to a very great extent that I am surprised that it was not written by or about me. ‘Journey of the Magi’ is about the journey that the three wise men of the east (the magi) undertook to pay their respects to the new-born, the son of god, Jesus Christ. They regretted leaving behind the comforts and luxuries of their kingdom and embarking on such a difficult journey which presented them with huge hurdles by the minute. When they finally reached the place where Jesus was born the spectacle for which they had suffered all the hardships of the journey seemed only ‘satisfactory’. Though they had witnessed the birth of Christianity, an introduction to a new faith, it was not easy for them to be able to give up their old beliefs and values. On their return to their kingdoms they found themselves ‘no longer at ease’ there. Their people seemed so primitive and pagan with their many gods and they felt like intruders, strangers. They were neither here nor there.

It is a bit ironic that I should use this journey to describe my situation because what I witnessed was not the birth of a new faith but the death of my old beliefs and maybe, you can say, the advent of rationality. The journey was not so pleasant. I tried clinging to what I had known and believed in for so long. I tried defending the irrationality that was my faith. Finally, there reached a point where I could no longer make a fool of myself and speak for something which I myself was so uncertain about. As god disappeared from my life, I could feel the liberation, the limitless freedom which was exciting and at the same time frightening. There were no taboos, it was my way. Everything was up to me and my “rational mind” to decide. Soon, I began to cope with it. I found out that I did not need a set of dogmas or the fear of someone watching me from up above to do what was right. I have a frigging brain for crying out loud!

The tough part was coming back home and defending why I am no longer the simple god-fearing girl who left for IIT. Everybody seemed to be convinced that I was under the spell of some evil demon. There would be debates daily which did not even for a moment make me doubt my stand. The last straw was when I was dragged to the temple on my birthday and it ruined the one day people usually try to make me happy. Everything seemed so primitive and pagan. I could feel the resistance building up inside me. Not one particle in my body wanted to be there and I felt my rebellious best. Forcing someone who does not have faith is not the way to bring them over to your side, it will only convince them that they are right. I still have some respect for religion for it brings people together even those who do not have time to eat proper meal and the morals that it tries to impart to people using figures, symbols and stories so that the layman can understand. One more forced outing to a temple and even that may go down the drain.

To sum up my situation, I will have to borrow a few lines from Matthew Arnold’s "Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse"

        Wandering between two worlds, one dead
        The other powerless to be born,
        With nowhere yet to rest my head
        Like these, on earth I wait forlorn.

Bits and Pieces... Sweet and Sour

Sometimes it seems to me that summer break is just euphemism for slow death by boredom. Like everyone else I am searching for an anodyne that would lend me a much needed break from this stifling monotony. Sitcoms and movies were temporary solutions that did not do me much good except for giving me a bed-ridden air and a sore and rusty body. Reading was another recourse that was touted to be a remedy. I used to be quite a book worm few years ago and my reading skills have gathered a fair amount of rust and so, I decided to bury my nose into something worth a read. ‘Love in the time of cholera’ proved to be truly magical, Vikas Swarup’s ‘Six Suspects’ not up to the mark and I found myself bitten by the ‘reading bug’, if you will. One of the newspaper supplements had a little something on Jaishree Mishra and I was quite surprised to find out that she was a Malayali. A literarily inclined kindred spirit had taken to calling me her ancient promise based on the title of one of Mishra’s books. So, running my hand down its paperback spine, I felt a strange sort of accomplishment. Finally, I would know what ‘Ancient Promises’ was all about. 

I have not read it fully, yet. I have just completed part 1. For a book that is written in clear, crisp and simple language, peppered with Malayalam words and expressions here and there, I found it surprisingly difficult to read. It was not for any fault of the author or the book. The striking similarity of it all made me pause every few pages to give way to a torrent of forgotten images to tide over me. The innocence of those days I spent at my ancestral home at Muthukulam seemed to appeal to me with an intensity that made me pine for a return to the good old days that were.  

The smell of vazhaykkappam came wafting back, so did the tingling of tamarind on my tongue, the piercing cry of the fishermen as they passed by our house in their long, black boats, the feel of blobs of mailanji on my palm and the silhouette of Achachan sitting on his armchair twirling that steel thing in his ears at dusk. All my senses seem dead now for want of experience. I yearn for a smell, a taste, a sound, a touch or a sight from the good old days that were. Among the myriad memories that came tumbling back to me these seemed precious enough to note down in case they get buried once again under thick layers of junk.

Sunday evenings, when women and children from all the neighbouring houses would throng the living room (the only one in the vicinity with cable television) to catch the movie at 4.

Standing by the veli with Sreekutty, watching fishes battle for the rice mischievously smuggled from the kitchen.

Boat journeys on the viridian kayal, watching jellyfishes bob up and down ever so charmingly.

Boisterous camaraderie with the maid’s daughter; my sister, I used to say. Cutting up every herb in the vicinity with shaving blades stolen from Achachan, under the pretext of making beans thoran. That evening when, wide-eyed I told everyone that I had accompanied my friend to her ‘scenic’ bathroom (the banks of the backwater) and the grownups put an abrupt full-stop to our ‘sistership’. I do not remember her name, but I wonder where she is now. Married, for certain and maybe, even a mother.

The many wonderful summer vacations when Sonu, Kannan and Cuckoo would meet. Making ladoos and many other delicacies with the white sand for our bakery and the memorable inauguration ceremony afterwards when we would jump on all the ‘items’ laid out, reducing hours of hard labor to smithereens. Watching ‘Small wonder’ with no small wonder. 

The room where countless mangoes would be laid on sacks, waiting for our pick and sucking onto the juicy, ripe mangoes unmindful of the drops that never failed to fall onto our shirts. 

The many promises which I am not sure I can keep. If I am to, Mr. Amrit Anand (Kannan) will be getting a duck, the first thing after I get my first salary. 

Learning to play shuttle-cock and to ride a bicycle, both from Kannan, whom I owe a lot in terms of gurudakshina.

Watching Chindu itta and Akki itta make 4-5 konju vadas disappear in the bat of an eyelid.

 Ammamma fretting and fawning over each one of us.The many tasty dishes she laid out for every meal with so much love. The karimeen mappas, konjuvadas, pazhamporis, diamond cuts and the assortment of chips, all of which tasted simply like Muthukulam. Ammamma would always know what each of us favoured. Vella payasam for Vishnu Chettan, pulissery for Sreekutty, urulakizhangu curry for Kannan, pulao for Sonu and a bharani full of curd for me. 

Bhanu uncle, the man who came to fell coconuts would always  remember to hack down some tender coconuts for us.

We were little kings and queens then…

As I sit here with watering eyes, I wonder; did Cuckoo, the naughtiest girl in the family, have any sorrow back then? Did she know that years from then, she would be sitting in a two-storied house in the capital city wishing to be her again, just for a single day?