The Smiling Mad Man!!!!

Mad people have always intersted and intimidated me.
I have often wondered if to the mad the sane seemed just as mad. They seem to shake their heads endlessly and mutter to themselves always. Perhaps they are sorry for us -the so called sane.

In one of the bus-stops that I commonly used, was a mad man, a genial and unintimidating one. He saluted you and bowed so courteuosly, before he put out his hand for alms. His eyes and his smile where never vacant or meaningless. If you refused him money he did not curse!!!. This mad man did not seem to mutter too.

I watched in wonder as he used a drinking straw as a cigar holder and smoked his beedis away.

New-comers to the bus-stop tried to run away from him, but the others just accepted him as an intergral part of the bus-stop itself. Years went by and suddenly one day he disappeared!!!!!!. Many like me would ask around, 'what happened to that mad man?'. No one seemed to know. If he died I hope he died smiling and carefree as he lived.


I have moved to another city, but when at my home town, and when at the bus stop I still look around hopely for a familiar face- The face of the smiling mad man !!!!

AHhhhhhhhhhhhChu!!!!!

I am at the lift lobby waiting for for an elevator to open its doors. A string of people join me, all looking up for the lights atop the elevator doors to glow. Ting Tong and the elevator doors open. I step in first and then.... there is the fragrance of a rose, ah chocolate aroma next, wow the sweet scent of lavendar! What was that now, smelt like cheddar cheese :). Who's the dacoit!!!, I can smell musquito repelent.

I look around and find not people, but staues cast in stone, staring at nothing. What ever happened to the ears-stuck to the - mobile whisperers this morning ?. 'Are'nt your noses tickling people??????. Oh come on, rub your nose, sniff a little or least bat an eyelid- There are no fumes in here alright but there are purfumes!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.', I yelled on the inside.

I am breathing hard, 'can we close the doors please' I say to myself. But not yet!!!.People are still walking in and it felt like I just walked under a lemon tree,then under an apple tree, then near a blue berry bush.
Boy!!! the doors shut and we start moving up.
The elevator stopped at the third floor, I step out and sneezed Ahh..ahhh... chhu!!. 'Bless you' said a kindly soul. I screamed within me"Bless the man that has to climb the 11 floors in the elevator". He will be SCENTOFFOCATED!!!!.

He left his best with me

City breds that live in joint families- a fast disappearing breed,I am one of them. Brought up in the heart of an industrial city, my sister and I lived with four uncles, an aunt, grandparents and a whole lot of visiting 'relatives', who walked in and out all through the year. Those where the days when visitors gave children fresh one rupee coins before they waved bye bye. The fun in the parents' resisting and the guest insisting and the child simply staring- it will soon be unheard off I am sure.

Despite all the talking,laughing and playing that was so much a part of the family, silence and mystery shrouded my Grandad. No one chit chatted with him, no one laughed with him, no one asked him questions, no one scolded him. The only thing I remember somebody doing ' with him' was to play chess. The lone friend who called on him was Mr. Singh, the only friend that called him up was S.R.Naidu.

He was an active man though- took a walk in the morning, prayed fervently, chopped wood for the fire, cycled to the store, read voraciously, smoked or chewed tobacoo a little, undertook frequent civil engineering surveys and slept a sound sleep.

My first interactions with him began when I was three and started going to Pre-KG. He walked me to, and from the school. Thus started for me an enduring relationship- one that grew stronger by the day and lasted 30 years. By the time I was seven, I was running to the petty shop to buy him cigarrettes and 'nizam lady' (chewable tobacco). In a year's time I had learnt the names and prizes of every brand of local cigaratte that existed then. He took my sister and I on a little trip to ooty when I was 10. He took us to a very unlikely children's spot. The church yard of St.Stephen's church ooty. The number of epitaphs I read on that one single day out number all the epitaphs I have read ever since. Then he showed me the most important tombstone there- the tombstone of Mrs. Henrietta Sullivan. John Sullivan was a British collector of coimbatore who founded the queen of hills in the 1800s.

When I turned 12 my grandfather told me "try and memorise Mathew chapter 5, 6 and 7, and whenever you do it I will give you a prize". I never promised him I would and have not done it till date. Wheezing struck be down badly when I was 16 and he told me "the power of the human mind is immense, keep telling yourself that you will recover and you will not worsen". He had introduced me to the concept of autosuggestion. Suddenly one day I asked every adult in the family, "when is grandad's birthday?", they said the did not know. So I walked up to him and asked him, he told me 'five days before yours'. Then for the next 12 years I called him on every one of his birthdays and he did the same to me.

During the five years of collegiate education, I visited him once every week. He had by then taken me for a dear friend and confederate. Within the locked doors of his tiny room week after week, he sang songs, told tales, shed tears and bragged victories. It was then I learnt that he had been a sheperd boy, tea estate laborer, trench digger, soldier, shikari and a draughtsman in the Highways department of India. I heard how he losts his mother at infancy and his dad at teenage. He very fondly told me about the woman who treated him, as a mother would treat her own child. In that tiny room I heard him confess his follies and defend some and got to know why he had two initials to his name.
During one of my weekly visits he said 'Hannahma I may leave many things to my sons, daughters and grandchildren, but I want to leave this with you- the book The Sermon on the mount by C.F. Andrews". As I read the book, I realised why he had asked me to memorise Mathew chapter 5,6, and 7.Those were the best days of our friendship.
A job took me away from my hometown and after a few more years, marriage took me to another state. One day news reached me that he had dementia and that parts of the family wanted him away at an institution. I went to my home town and went to his house, where I found him sleeping on the sofa. My aunts and uncles told me, you have to help him recognize you. I said "Thatha this is Hannah". He said "oh you've come, how have you been?". Then with no trace of dementia he explained to me how he fell ill, why they amputed one of his toes and how he was feeling then. The whole family was stunned and he never went to an institution.
My son was fortunate to have sat and played on his lap. After a trip to the UK, I heard that his memory was fading soon. Again I visited him and said "Thatha, Hannah". He asked me "so when did you return from England?". His brain was attempting to forget his errors I knew, and we called it dementia. A couple of months before he died, he visited my house- he rarely left his own house. He died a peaceful and sudden death. You could call it luck, but I know it was providential grace that I was in the city that day.
When his death certificate was to be applied for my family called me up to ask questions like what was his given name?, what was his date of birth ? and so on.
Then I knew that when he died, my dad and his siblilngs lost their dad, my grandma her husband, my cousins a grand dad, his relatives an uncle .
But I lost a friend. A dear and remarkable one.
I never visit his grave, I never will, for he is not in there. But whenever I remember my grandad, I pick up The Sermon on the Mount and read it.

Then I tell myself, he left his richest possession with me.

Children can teach us to be real !!

Does information bombardment make life more interesting? For example if we did not have the LTTE, the Oscars,Barack Obama, Indian Politics and Cricket would we still chit chat during our "team lunches"?. The 'daily news' equips us with 'conversation starters', but we never talk about 'life'. Do we ever discuss child labour, sense of humour, orphans and orphanages, music and philosophy.

Ah.............there I can almost hear you say "who wants to talk about them Phew!!!!".

Its because we don't do that kind of talking do we find ourselves shocked when 'The guy who shared your cabin at the office commits suicide' . And we find ourselves saying about a team mate "he looked normal till yesterday he has had a nervous break down today".

We fail to see the person behind the 'designation', the emotion behind the 'silence', the scar behind the 'shyness', the sadness behind the 'loudness', the hurt behind the 'snob' and the pathos behind the 'smile' .

Yes we are all individuals with our own 'personal space' and we hate it when another enters that personal space. But we are essentially social beings and the less we use 'the news' to talk the better it is.

We should learn from children to talk about the sky, the kite, the colours of a butterfly, the beauty of an airplane flying in the sky, the roar of the seas, the new born sister of a neighbour, the tricks possible with a top and the earthworm that wriggles.

May be then we could reach out to each other and enrich each others lives.!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Through my window-in Southampton

We lived on Languard road in Shirley, Southampton.Everything I saw was reason for excitement. There was one large window in the house which i lived. It had a frame and a thick glass, no grill that was new and then! the window opened out upwards. All my life i saw windows that opened out sideways.our house was on the roof LITERALLY and when i stood looking out through the window "I am the kling of the world" i screamed inside. (ok ok........... queen of the world)
Every morning at 6.30 am I looked out of the window and I saw a lone cyclist brisk past my window, she seemed to love to be up early. Then slowly a few cars kinda lazily moved on the road.
8.15 am and there bustling activity down in the street.A mother of four took her children to school.One baby on the pram, one little fellow on a skate and two walking along her briskly. they rattled of tales about school to her and she pushed hard and hurriedly as she nodded incessantly.

About 5 mins later I saw a black woman dragging herself, with her son's school bag in hand.The son was a lively fellow, stopping to peer at stuff on the road, asking her questions, telling her something..........always bubbly but the mother never looked like she was intersted in what the boy was saying.On some days the dad came and then I knew where the boys liveliness came from.

I had to leave the window for a while,.. my husband must be leaving to work anytime now. Soon I was back at the window waving him bye bye and staring at the long haired little girl who went to school with her mum. golden hair, two braids, down to her knee almost ,she was I suppose 7 or 8. By 9.15 am the street below me fell silent I saw the strech of cars lined up on the road. They looked like army tanks to me,just waiting for one whistle!
For the rest of the day till about 3.30 pm there was just the occassional Zoooom of cars. Then came all my morning favourites, children filling the ears of mums and dads with the days stories.
When it was 6 pm I was looking out through the window but dint see much 'cos I was hoping to see my husband's car. When he did come with tea cups in our hand we stared together at the bright sunlight at 7 pm (unheard of in India). He kept looking out the window and slowly told me "everyday I try to figure out where the south east is and look at it thinking, ah thats where home is"
Out of that huge window I saw, ships, airplanes, fire engines, trash trucks, cats, dogs, birds and much much more. For the window made be feel SO out of the house when I was still in it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.thats why i liked it best.

I walked into my english books

It would have been a dull world if we all spoke the same tongue!........oh no!, may be there would have emerged so many dialects and accents for that one language and the world would have been as amusing as it is today. I long to learn many languages and talk and talk and talk no matter wherever I went in this whole wide world. Alas Iknow just 2 languages Tamil and English and, man! I love them both like mad.

My dad put in me a great thirst and love for English.So in my mind's eye I SAW every poem and lesson that was taught at school.Wordsworth's 'solitary reaper' and I SAW a lass reaping, it was a vivid picture,his 'upon westminister bridge' and I SAW a bridge on the Thames.Tennyson's 'brook' and I literally SAW a tiny river.When my teacher taught -as a lesson- an essay of G.B.Shaw's I SAW picaddily circus,paddington and charing cross. Yes I saw them all in my mind's eye

And then one day in may 2007,I walked into all my mind's pictures. I saw the moors of Southampton and wordsworth's words I could hear, I was in London on the westminister bridge and I heard Wordsworth again, I was in the isle of wight and I saw Tennyson's house ,then I heard him say the 'brook' for me.I was in paddigton and charing cross and I heard G.B.Shaw.

oh yes yes I went to England to live, to visit, to enjoy but most of all i went to England to just walk in to my English text books.My heart leapt,danced, laughed and indeed wept for sheer joy

Faces without names

“As I wrote the previous entry I realized that there are faces of people I remember so vividly but their names I had never bothered to find out or remember”.
After school everyday my mum would come and pick us up for the long bus ride home. She would come at 5.00pm and by then we would have played for an hour. There was a boy about my age with whom my sister and I played. He was'nt from our school (a school for girls) but he lived in the convent. He was so much fun, he was very fair and his hair was golden in colour. A couple of years he was'nt there. If I had the ability to draw I’d draw his face to the last detail even today. I just never asked for his name.
In the school canteen were sales women, all- as if made to order in the same height and shape. I remember 2 faces both spectacled but one brown the other fair. They and their blue aprons I remember and yes! They would speak Malayalam and call it Tamil. Buns, samosas, elantha vadai and a whole lot of things I had bought from them, and sometimes fought with them. Umhum never knew their names.
Under one of the huge trees in school sat an old cobbler, really old. I just loved to sit next to him and watch him work on my torn shoes. I fell in love with mending shoes. He narrated incidents as he stitched and was such a kind man. As I write in my mind’s eye I can see his face- haggard, mouth with no teeth and white hair…………… his lungi, his soiled white shirt and his paraphernalia. I wonder what his name was
Opposite to my granddad’s house was a workshop for auto rickshaws, many mechanics and painters worked there. As children when we played in the street we stopped to see them work and even spoke to them. Believe me I saw one of them on a scooter, after a long gap of 15 years and I recognized him. I waved to him he cud place me only after seeing my dad who was with me. I shd have asked for his name.!!!!!!!!!!
The list is long and the nostalgia strong, as I recollect those faces without names, they bring back to me the sweet aroma of childhood
…………………….Oh the unforgettable “iceman” at school waving his hands menacingly when we touched his cheap displays: mangoes, oranges, sweets, candies…………….he surely must have had a name?