Wedding Bells & Death Knells

...still, there is some part of us which refuses to let go in the face of impossibility and all the reason the world could throw at us. It’s usually insignificant and over-ridden by the power of everything else that’s seeped into the head. But now, we’re approaching a moment of truth.

It’s like watching your old man grow older and die. We know that he’s going to die. We know that Death is the best example of certainty. Yet, we still cry when he dies. We know it’s coming, we think about it, tell ourselves that it’s normal and natural and that so many others have gone through it. In fact, it’s imperative that he dies. New life has to replace old life and death is important in helping life progress. But try holding back the tears.

Fickle are our thoughts and the promises we made. We knew it then, we know it now.

Kutta

It's not that we didn't know what's happening. When the first nails were drilled into the coffin, I knew it was coming. There is a certain beauty in inevitability. Someone felt that I had to learn a little about helplessness. And so I fell freely, torn in a thousand directions by things that I could neither sense nor perceive. There is no face to hate, no act to blame and no where to hide. You run you're fucked, you stay put and you're fucked anyway. And so I had to choose between the two fucked up choices and I chose to stay back and stare into the devil I couldn't see, mostly because I tried running and got fucked miserably.

We all have demons in our heads. My own took the form of some pictures I'm very fond of, a few beautiful notes from a pair of violins and writings which took strangely standardized forms (Trebuchet size 12 perhaps) for something so romantic.

Once when Joy, Gopal and I were riding from Pathankhot to Jalandar, Joy had a fucked up bike and no money, while we rode ahead, not in bliss but ignorant nevertheless. We had to ride back 70 kms in the rain, burning scarce petrol and time, soaked to our balls and frustrated beyond words, only to discover that Joy's fucked up bike required a fix worth one twenty ruppee note. During that ride it pained us to see the same scenery we'd seen earlier, and it pained us even more to know that we'll see it again on the way back.

Apologies for digressing and repeating my stories (this one is a standard disclaimer that holds for all my stories)... I hope you get the link as I rant on. Back to my demons... the progress was slow and painful. Two steps forward and one step back... 4 steps forward and 3 steps back... let's say that one day I reached 10 steps forward, with a big grin on my face and a heart that swelled with pride... only to slide 9 steps down on a laddered snake (after some time you begin to think someone's playing a game and enjoying it), to where I once was many months back. That's the very worst - to know that you have to slog through the muck again. It's easier to take shit if you didn't know what was coming. If I were dragged back to high school with all the hindsight I have now, I'd check if man can fly and jump off a cliff.

Help comes in strange forms, like in this case, other wounds and other people's wounds.

Contrary to what this post may suggest thus far, I'm at peace - even happy - with the old wounds. I can look at it without my throat getting stuck, playfully push and pat and not feel the sting, and involuntarily smile at the beauty instead of wincing. The pictures, writings and violin notes become more beautiful and distant everyday, as The Little Boy grows out of the stories he narrates.

So much cheer, so much hope... it's all too beautiful to be written down here.

The Shorts Were Always Short

The others are my brother and my favourite of dad’s 6 brothers. That was some 20 years ago… back when we ate mints for fun. Back when my hair was oiled and combed in all the wrong ways known only to Tam Brahms in Madras who sent their kids to schools with names like PS Senior. In case you’re wondering, PS expands to Pennathur Subramaniam. Wow… I just remembered that my school was (at least partly) named after me. Anyway, you know the effects of studying in such a school with hair oiled and combed like that… I used to be convinced that kids going to schools with names like Boston Matriculation were smarter, stronger, faster, funnier, cooler, bigger…

So Everyone (read Women In My Life) says something nice when they see that picture… like “ohhh! You were succchhha cute boy!” and to my eyes the cute is massacred by the past tense. Ok, please don’t post comments trying to cheer me up. I’m thinking why no one told me anything nice back then. I’m also thinking that 20 years from now, when Everyone is flirting with menopause, they’ll say all nice things and remember which tense to use.