Memoirs of another Era

To the eyes of a two year me, life was rater different from what it is now. It was full of magic and everything was a kaleidoscopic in its own nature. I have no real memory but rather flashes of it, vestiges of a memorable time popping up like bubbles in a champagne glass. These are not memories that I can make any sense of but are rather distinctive and certainly not very descriptive in nature. I don’t remember all of them ( I was just a couple of years old, my brain was still finding places to keep stuff and had other serious problems like food and potty to bother about) but I do remember a few of them and of course one of them has a lot to do with braids.

When I started thinking about braids and what the to write about them, frankly I was turning blank, with the very little hair that I myself has that was no surprise. That’s when I realized that I should stop being a stupid narcissist and concentrate along another lines. I donned my thinking hat on and started thinking what thoughts braids inspire in me. One thought, rather one memory stood out of all. It was that of a two year old me, the hazy vision of the dangling braids all in sepia like in any good flashback from a beloved part of my life. I could see through the baby eyes of mine the life that was in and around me.

The first of the visions that I remember has my mother’s face in it, much younger and with much less wrinkles, so much younger and carefree than I ever remember her. I could faintly hear her smiles as she cajoled me. I could feel the delight in her giggles as I hung on to her braids and carried out various scientific experiments on like, biting, tasting, pulling and what not. I can remember the cries of utter delight that I let out and the immediate effect it has on my mother’s face. I remember watching the smile that reciprocate on her face, her eyes lighting up as if she was beholding something miraculous n her hands. Something that only a mother can feel for her son I guess.

Every one of my memories of my grandmother has something to do with braids. I have seen beautiful pictures of my ravishingly beautiful grandmother at my home. She had a very long braid, so beautiful were they, But that not the one that I remember. By the time I was born she had lost the blackness of her hair and her braids were no longer that strong but I can say that they would put most girls to shame. I remember I her braids, much before she lost it to old age and its ailments. It was like a silver thread, so beautiful; I can even remember seeing them shine brightly in the sunlight. The little me was so fascinated by the games her braids would play with the light, I would try chasing it, jumping on it and everything else I was capable of them.

I don’t know whether I could go on and say that braids has done a lot to my childhood, or that it played an important part in my younger years. But I can say this that though I have no braids, braids have featured in some the most cherished of my childhood memories. My memory of my mother when I was little was one the most beautiful memories that I have of my mother, a personal favorite, one among the very few where I remember her as carefree and elated. Huh! Memories sometimes that is all that we may have for ourselves. My only wish is that these memories be real and not just a product of my runaway imagination.

Story written for : Beautiful Ends to your Beautiful Braids!

My Dysfunctional Family

I have no parents, I have a mother, and I have a father but no parents. In the conflicts of greater interests and in the great battles of domestic blitzkrieg I lost my parents. They must have thought I was dumb and mind numb, they must have thought I have no ears nor my eyes in-adept in the prevalent darkness, they must have thought I have not seen the fall of my family.  They must have thought I was deep asleep, wandering in dreams that every child cherish while they wage their futile battles to quench the devil’s thirst.

 

The times are tranquil now, the ominous silence persists, no more are there swearing and curses, no more the threatening sounds of apocalypse. The wounds have healed and the lines draw and as in all war we all lost. The battle has left scares deep in my heart, which no amount of time shall ever heal. What surprises me that they never felt to leave it, they left their love, they theft all the meanings that the institution of marriage held but still they have failed to leave each other and search happiness elsewhere. As much as I would love to have my family, I am not selfish, as much as the tales of evil steps trouble me; the hope for a happier life for my parents’ persists. They are perfect for each other, they know it or not, but in their frivolous pursuits of domination they doomed all hopes of happiness that the relation would ever bear. It’s sad that they would deem to that level of disgust that they could be no more stand the others presence within the same set of walls.

But, I am not sad, I am not devastated. When the days were dark and when the paths echoed with sinister forebodings. I clutched to my heart and believed in a brighter days. I took refuge among stacks of books and in the thought that ‘when winter is here can spring be far behind”. I collected my fallen self, patched what was left, made a pact with myself. I pledge myself that this is not what I shall become, I made it clear to myself that I should learn, I decided to be not like my parents when a world full of children promised to follow their parents way. I knew I would be alone and silence was my best bet, it must have hurt them bad had I took any other path. I assured myself to suffer in silence and rejuvenate when it’s all over. I went into the fade where all my sabbaticals had but two guests, me and myself.

This was an escape a less violent one, one of pure suffering and at the end the promises came true. There was spring, and there were flowers and there were butterflies. The was the fairies and there were the rainbows. But, just one sadness that I think will persist in this world of much bliss. The melancholic sense of the absence of a hand to hold on to. The poignant fact that I have no shoulder to lean on to. Out in this new world, I was to fend on my own, build it all up from scratch. But I was happy, I was peaceful.

I know that many will pity for the misfortunes I had, But I tell you don’t be. Be happy that I am what I chose to be. At the end of this very difficult choice lied one rather rare gift. The gift was the ability to let go and I think now I can after all. This blog is the final act in the rather elaborate ritual of severance.

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The Day of the Women

Every once in a while when something sinister happens, we start talking about, their security, their safety, their lives and the several clichés that we so randomly use. The only exception to it ought to be this and a handful of other anniversaries. And now I am not going to be doing the same here just because it’s a cliché.

There were many women in my life and quiet a few are worth mention. And there are of course a few that I will not talk about ever, not even a passing reference or a unwelcomed memory. But in the making of the man I am today there are quiet a few skillful hands that that belonged to the some very lovely ladies all along. I must be very thankful, rather indebted to these very special souls.

I don’t know what being an women would come to mean and how it feels to be being the daughter of Eve. I can only imagine and my imagination ought to be highly restrictive. After all the key is to a women’s thought is yet to be identified. But it must feel wonderful to be the one to possess the gift of life a rare and divine responsibility that the heavens entrusted to them. The continuation of humanity ought to be a very demanding responsibility.

When we talk about women, its just natural to talk of fertility, the wonderful gift of giving birth and ‘The Mother’.  For centauries we have worshipped this divine gift and have always embraced it close at heart. So I am thankful to my very loving Mother whose sole love and care and the occasional scolding and scorning made me into the made of value I believe I am today. Then there is her mother, my grand mother who with her love and unbelievably tasty magic made sure that I was always full and stuffed to the brim. I must thank these two wonderful ‘one hell of a woman’s but I wont, I just love them and I will leave it at that.

Women have a heart so big, yet so small. It’s heard to get out once you have found your way in and its hard to find your way back into it once you have been thrown out. There are many women I love and I loved in the many (twenty one) years I lived. There are the ones that require a special mention and the ones that may have a passing reference, but irrespective of that they all have made significant contributions to the big and small things I have done and became. I have two aunts who were my world when I grew up and they are quite amiable too. And one of them I solely remember from her photograph on my grandfather’s desk and the weekly call she made to my grandparents house during my stay there. The two women own much of my construction and rightfully so.

Falling in and out of love is not a prerogative of men, women do it to often with such deceptive elegance and for a chauvinistic argument they do blame it on men always. But we both know the truth.  Then again its not the breaking and breaking of love that matters but living it. And from all the romantic relationships I have had and all the wonderful souls I have been with and the angel whom I have decided to share my life with (officially and officially she doesn’t know yet) I have had a life’s worth of wonderful experiences.

I have been blabbering for too long now and I don’t intend to take it any further than this. So for all the wonderful ladies I missed but not forgotten. All the teachers, friends and acquaintances and all the wonderful time they cared to spend with me I have just this to say.

Sorry! I missed to mention you

And

Thank you! For all the things and times you cared to share.