Rigor Mortis Revisited

Science says
brain shall live
ten minutes
after death

before the memory center
the last one to die
flashes a slideshow
of life gone by

so lets pick the slides

• my father's snowboots
• Shimla's cedars whistling
• little fingers dipped in paint
• a dark lonely corridor
• the smell of books
• first blood in panties
• the rush of a love letter
• first dead body
• waves and sand
• scars and bruises
• cobbled streets of Brugge
• touch of a surgical blade
• a Sufi shrine
• a little Buddha
• two small feet kicking
• Ardas in a Gurdwara
• papers and destiny
• Screens and calls
• blinking cursor

the last moment of my
Rigor Mortis love

Conical Tales

A few weeks ago while our summer vacations in my hometown Shimla I witnessed a small road side shop selling plain pine cones. It was absolutely outrageous- putting a price tag on what the nature gives us freely and in abundance. These beauties are actually fruits of the pine trees found aplenty in the hills.

My relationship with them goes way back to my idyllic childhood spent in the hills and particularly to the long winter months spent at my maternal grandparents' place in Upper Shimla, known for its apples and so many natural treasures including the pines.

Image Courtesy: Google Images

Those were still pre-LPG days for the village kitchens and wood stoves were used for cooking, keeping the house warm and even heating water for hot baths. Most of the days when it used to snow,me and my cousins would cuddle in a quilt in the dimly lit kitchen near the "choolha" (stove) and listen to grandma's tales while smelling the potatoes getting roasted in the hot ash.

On clear days however keeping us occupied without many toys or books or TV like things grandma would handover a small "Kilta" (a multi-purpose conical handmade wood basket widely used in Himachal ) to each one of us and send us to collect pine cones for the evening fire.



Image courtesy : Google images

The rules of the game were simple - no climbing pine trees, no forceful pulling of cones and no snatching from each other , the third one being the most important because the one who got maximum number of cones would get a small prize from grandma, most often an extra fistful of sun-dried apricots or apples locally called "Boi".

This was such an interesting game for us because while we searched for pine cones through the apple orchards we would also discover other treasures as bonus. Sometimes an interesting looking pebble , or a rabbit in the grass, a unique leaf and the like.

As I grew up and my cousins also moved out the visits to that house became few and far between, a few years ago grandma also passed away, but I always loved pine cones. So whenever I would find one while walking in Shimla I would pick it, bring it home ,clean it and keep it as a treasure. Over the next few weeks I would slowly witness some of them to expand and take full shape, while others would just change colour.
Gradually I started painting them and turning them into colourful paperweights .

DIY Pine Cone paperweights

Now I am a mum to a six years old, who also incidentally is fascinated with pine cones. Whenever we find one out in the open during our trips to the hills, we bring it home and now my little one paints them too.

There are no wooden stoves to show her, even the handmade baskets have been replaced by ugly plastic ones but the stories and the charm of the pine cones is my gift to her , its a link for her to know how different was my childhood three decades ago than hers and how devoid of fancy toys, games and gadgets, nature gave us plenty to play and relish.

So whenever we can we take to the outdoors and that is what I wish more and more kids would do more often. The bounty of nature and how much it can give us in terms of learning and memories can never be matched with gadgets and toys.


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Hide and Seek (in the memory of my late father)

H

Blogging from A to Z [April 2015]

 

 

 

 

 

A vast green campus

of several historic structures

amidst a thick pine forest

 

The heritage power station

- your workplace

my childhood home

 

those endless mazes

of cobbled corridors

stone walls

 

where my little giggles

and Jackie's* mild barking

would echo for hours

 

we would run around

playing Hide & Seek

 

till you would call out

for me and him

and before the echo of your voice died

we would come

running to you

 

Now I know

you will never call out

my name again

Jackie is long gone

 

Hope you meet him up there

and his coat is still shinier

than my hair

 

This time you both

have gone hiding

and I seek you

over and over again.

 

*Jackie was our German Shepherd, who had come to our home before I was born, was a constant companion, almost a sibling during my childhood. He passed away while I was still a child.



Blessing of being a BIBLIOPHILE- in the memory of my late father

                                       Blogging from A to Z Challenge [April 2015 ]

                                                   B

 

In the various homes that I have lived in since I ever remember there was always less space and more books. On the shelves, side tables, bed boxes even wardrobes. My mother who was herself a teacher and is an avid reader till date did not understand me- as to what kind of a girl would put her dresses aside to make more room for books.

Where did I get my first taste of books from?

As old timers in Shimla will tell you, in the extreme last segment of shops on The Mall, towards the HPTDC lift there used to be the old Asia Book House. Whenever and that means every time I would go there papa would buy me a book- a book to read, a sketchbook, a drawing book anything that had a world of wonder enclosed in its covers.

My first ever that I remember clearly was the abridged version of The Count of Monte Cristo. Then came the write-n-wipe ones which were such a novelty then, the hardbound, the imported ones,the fiction, biographies. I was given every genre to try my hands on.

For every small or big achievement, for every occasion I was given a book, memberships to libraries and every possibly opportunity to have and read books. Books are my ticket to the millions of lives I can't possibly live in this one, guardian angels who never give up on me.

I always feel that best fragrance on this planet is not some exotic bottled perfume,  next in line to the fragrance of fresh rain on the parched soil is the fragrance of old books, of libraries, of book stores.

My father himself was not an avid reader. Most of the books he had were technical/professional but he took great care of them and loved them. He had once told me that when he was an engineering student there were no Xerox machines so if one student had a particular sought after book there used to be a waiting list in college to get that book for one day.

So maybe he ensured that I will have no waiting list for books. A day he passed away I was reading Tuesdays with Morrie and a line stood out - Death ends a life not a relationship.

After he passed away,as is customary,I was giving away his things but I kept back one of his books- Industrial Engineering. A hard bound, faded grey cover, from his student days. Its subject matter means nothing to me, but its yellow pages will always remind me that one of my best blessings from my father is my love for books.

Strangely my little one loves books too and I hope some day she knows that this love for books is a blessing.

The hills have changed

The hills have changed
and how
they have adopted
some of the
sameness
of the plains

like a loved poet
who has no more
metaphors or similes
to define love
or longing
only loss

the old beggar woman
speaks all mumbo-jumbo
she is the only one
who has moved beyond
the futility of
sane structured languages

Eliot, Woolf, Plath, Kerouac, Rumi
all insane
all beyond the narrow expanses
we call minds

the hills have changed
they are a graveyard
of idyllic childhoods.

 

Hometown

hills and fog
memories of
spring gone by
buried in the snow

flavours, fragrances
of youth
the decay and emptiness
of old age

the joy and
the ache
the bitter-sweet
the happy-sad
hometown.


 

Memory with Tea

The crunch of life

I used to buy for two rupees

has been long lost with

the familiar poodiwalaah* 

the glittering signages

of multinational chains

selling international cuisines

have gobbled up

the old woman who sold

boiled eggs with rock salt

on winter eves

the benches thankfully

are still here

but vacant

the plague of social networking

has killed the time

that permitted

sitting there doing nothing

gossip,chat,observe

and soak the sun

the state library

and the church

mostly visited by 

only tourists now

have air fresheners

killing the

fragrance of nostalgia

in each of these

I have lost

the ideal of something

SHIMLA was

I delete

all the new pictures

and munch on memory

with a hot cup of tea.

* the man who sold paper cones filled with a homemade spicy mixture of nuts.

SHIMLA

Like a cherry
on the colonial cake
the summer capital
of the empire
where the
sun never set

decades later
the fragrance of history
tudor,gothic and native
still as fresh
as its mountain air


The pearl necklace
of the Himalayas
gracing its proud neck
the serpentine paths
and the stalwart conifers
embroidering its
royal ensemble


The mighty Hanuman*
overlooking from
the Jakhu Peak**
while the numerous streams
singing melodies
for the queen of hills.


* the huge statue of the hindu god whose ancient temple adorns the peak.


**the highest peak in Shimla town.

Teachers....

Its Teacher's day and this year I feel like recording here formally my gratitude to a lot of people who have been teachers to me.Some of them officially holding the title ,others earning it by sheer devotion for my betterment.
They come in all shapes and sizes,quite literally and from various walks of life, some even from an age/ time far removed in which I exist.I mention them in no precise order here,only with a heart full of gratitude and love and eyes brimming with the overwhelming feeling of being blessed with all of them in one lifetime.

• My mummy and papa for letting me be the person I am always,listening to me even when they disagreed,for teaching me to reach for the sky without leaving the roots that hold me upright.
• My teachers in my first school where I was a fussy toddler,for teaching me to always ask my questions even at the risks of ruffling some feathers.
• My teachers in St.Thomas School Shimla,for teaching me that real education is not ransom to a great building or the best infrastructure in town,just plain dedication.
• My teachers and friends in St.bede's College Shimla,who made me believe in the strength of my dreams and to look beyond the proverbial well of the small frog for the world out there.
• My friends,teachers and colleagues in Panjab university Chandigarh,for making me master the art of being always comfortable in my own skin,for setting me on a quest of never ending learning.
• My students from a variety of backgrounds and age-groups,for teaching me to be a good listener and regular exercises in the fine art of communication.
• My best friend and now husband for teaching me optimism and humour.
• My daughter ,whose lessons are still on about building blocks,ants,stars and everything else under the sky.
• My friends for being my co-learners as well as teachers in life-experiences as silly as tequila shots and as profound as motherhood.

And last but not the least,innumerable people,objects,experiences and things e.g. Karl Marx,ants,birds,books,colours,watching fog in hills,smelling wine,holding a newborn,cookery shows,household helps,news,internet - all of them teaching me so much and enhancing my treasure trove.
Thank you all ! HAPPY TEACHER'S DAY !