The Monsoons Offspring

I do have memories....

I sure do, I have destroyed them, rebuilt them,

And destroyed them again.....

Yet the phoenix rises from my heart to sing its beautiful

Song on a rainy day of monsoon......

The rhythm of the rain had sung its lullaby,

For me, as I was born in monsoon....

I never heard my mother’s voice

Her body was ice cold but her blood was

warm on me when I was born....

It were the new born touch me not of monsoon,

That taught me the fragility of nature....

Innocence , which left me in years

of living in the hell called world,

was so tender as of those touch me not.....

It was the smell of arrival of monsoon

That had made me tell her.....

“ Yes, It is true ”....

The evening that was drawn in grey made us cry...

We walked in the rain so nobody saw our tears...

The sky had turned creamy black

And the birds were heading back....

It was that moment I remembered ,

I too needed to head back. Monsoon was coming.

My attic will leak, fungi green will eat up my wall.....

Wasps were flying from the damp ground,

Circling the yellow light bulb under which,

My father was laid still and erect......

I understood that, monsoon had took his life to

Give some others a new one....

I have memories....

I sure do, I destroyed them, rebuilt them,

And destroyed them again.....

For the phoenix to rise from my heart to sing its beautiful

Song on a rainy day of monsoon......

From the window of my death bed I can see

heavy rain falling into the brown river....

and down the memory lane, everything,

I had felt and every thing I was, It was because of monsoon....

And now, I would like to name me as Monsoon’s Offspring.

*************************

Monsoon’s Offspring

Raghuram.R

Smell of shit and urine was all around the Trivandrum railway station. The beggars, out of habit or what, never felt the uneasiness as that of Nandan. He was waiting for the 2:30 Cannanore express. He was early and alone in the platform other than the usual peddlers and beggars. He made a mental note not sit on the third bench from the pillar as he doubted an old drunk who had shitted in his dress was sleeping there when he came. The stench made him sick. Nandan was thinking about his pair of shirts, Reebok shoes, the new trigger jeans he had bought from the street vendor for a cheap price. He had pushed in all these in a backpack. He was also thinking that why didn’t any one turn up for the train as the reservations are complete. He had not forgotten to look his travel mate’s name in the list. Devi Sreeraman. He hoped that she would be alone as no other reservations were made in that cabin. He had dressed up in his best shirt and had the most attractive hand band. All together he was looking as a teenager who has spoilt himself with his dad’s money and his mother’s brain. He liked people to see him that way because he felt happy when people looked him.

The train had been pulled to the platform and would leave in around 10 minutes. Night’s chillness had started to wear off. Nandan with a grim look boarded the sweat smelling train. He smiled seeing the sweat like dew drops on the window pane. He automatically swiped the window and suddenly he saw her loose short hair, her eyes were hidden. She had nothing else than the hand bag. No one came to see her off. It was as if the whole scenario had changed, the sweat was much better, the chillness was back. He didn’t get time to think for a formal introduction, and she had already entered the cabin. Moving her hair backwards she sat and said in a tough voice “Devi” and reaching out her hand. Nandan was too slow for her. Then too he shook hands. Her hands were numb with cold. Her smile had a charm. Nandan looked out through the window to make her feel he was not interested in her at all. She again started the conversation in the same tough voice “You must be Nandan. Right. Saw your name in the list.”Nandan shook his head and glanced at his watch. It was time to move. The train with a crackling noise started to move. Nandan had noticed the difference in Devi’s dressing. A saffron shawl with some works on it. A plain cream jubbah and dark blue jeans. He guessed that she would be a journalist or something. The train had picked up speed and wind was swiping across his face. He felt that Devi too was observing him. He took some time and asked her what was she doing in Trivandrum and his guess came right. She was working for a leading television channel as a filmmaker. Nandan explained he was studying and going home for a short vacation. He felt comfortable and borrowed a magazine from her. He didn’t like reading magazines but he had no other option. He searched for the film news and read the review of the latest films. Devi had a taken her reading glass and was reading something which was titled “Monsoon’s Offspring”. She also had taken out a pencil and was marking something. Nandan while returning the magazine tried to get a closer look of what looked like a script. She understood that Nandan was interested. “It’s about the people of Kolkata, Bombay, and Bangalore. Actually about the heavenly rains that washes all the sins of these metropolis, and gives life for new sins. A never ending cycle, the streets, the children, all become the children of monsoon. Or as I say “The Monsoons Offspring”. Hey buddy did I bore you?” Actually Nandan was enjoying the talk. “Not at all. I love this stuff. You must be quite daring to do these, isn’t it? And a good name “Monsoon’s Offspring”.

She was smiling which was visible by the yellow light that filled the cabin. Sometimes she stared aimlessly to the moonlit fields which they were passing through. He felt awkward with the Nike hand band. It appeared as if he were some brat trying to impress girls. She as if reminded by something said “Nandan, were you born in Monsoon?” He was taken aback by that question. “Yeah, on a beautiful July night. Why? ”. She replied “Just, just for knowing are you too, the child of monsoon. I was born in September. They say it was the worst night they had that year. I am madly obsessed with rains. Don’t ask me why. My favourite is the night rain.” Nandan began to understand her, she was a little mad herself and very frank. “So, could you please brief up about this script, I would love to know about your work.” She took it as if she knew I would be interested and with a sceptical look she asked me “Would you? I have no probs in sharing my work with you, but one thing you must be as attentive as you are my student. You must not question me or condemn me. You may accept me or discard my opinions. But you must not talk in between. You can think, from which no one can stop you, but don’t say it. Ok.” Nandan was now quite sure she had some problem; he just couldn’t figure out was she trying to fool him or she was actually the way she is. “All conditions accepted madam”.

“These are ideas; you may feel they are absurd, not connected in any way. But they are, they are in the same way we both are connected. Somewhere, sometime these ideas have had union for the creation of a new school of thought. My creation deals with a school of thought, a series of thoughts that I have had in my life. As I said earlier about the children of monsoon and the cycle which never ends nor starts, it just the primary idea. In this documentary I say that there will once be such a monsoon that will clean the entire world out of its paradox. That rain will be the most splendid one. Did you get what I am trying to say, Nandan? ” The way she said his name. He felt something wrong inside his stomach. Nandan didn’t have a clue what she was trying to say. He said “No, frankly, no pal. I didn’t understand anything. Is your project about rains in metropolis or about sins and deeds.....err could you tell me simply about what you are doing?”

“Ha...that’s it. I like your frankness. If you don’t know, you say, you don’t know. You don’t fiddle with the answers. In much simpler terms the docu is about global warming. We are the persons who are responsible for the flood of water in the costal areas. The amount of heat, gases and waste we produce causes the ice to melt and water level to rise and hence change the season and destroy everything as we see today. Sometimes that may bring out a new world and new surviving tactics. You must be thinking that these are things which you had learned in your classes and you know all these. But have you ever thought what your role is in this steam business. Never. Now I would tell you how the rains and the deeds are connected. Have you ever been in Mumbai on a rainy day? People at the middle of night get stuck somewhere very far from the place of their neighbourhood. Their cars get soaked and don’t work. And the city where no one has time for others gets to a stand still position. People talk to each other scream for help. Stay at a strangers place. And again when the water decreases they continue running. So it was the rain that made them stop for sometime think, how small they are before the nature. People who think they have everything understand that everything is not enough without understanding life. So in short my dear Nandan, I document the life of people who learn things from natures study classes. So, what do you think? ”.

“Brilliant” Nandan hadn’t thought about the rains to affect someone’s life like this. “I really am fascinated by the way you think.” After saying this he couldn’t find words to say something. The rains, metros, human life’s. Everything was passing through his mind. The image of the moonlit night faded and gave way to the monsoon.

The train halted with a screech and Nandan woke as if from a dream. Devi was still immersed in reading the script. Night was stunningly beautiful. The way the distant shadows lined over the starry sky, the gleaming water of the fields. Nandan has never seen anything such beautiful. He was going to ask Devi how she felt about the night. But Devi had risen from her seat and headed towards the door of the compartment. Nandan wondered if he should go to her or not. He couldn’t resist getting up and look what she was doing. He peeked outside. Then he went to look at the door. She was sitting on the footboard, with a lighted cigarette. Without turning she called him. He went near to her. And she asked him to sit beside her. He did as he was told. Nandan the cleanliness freak didn’t think about his attire or about the place he was going to sit. Under some influence he did what he was told.

Sweat was still oozing from the sweat smelling train’s outer walls. The smoke of the cigarette made Nandan to cough. Devi apologized and threw away the cigarette. “ So, tell me something about you.” she asked him. “ Me, eh.... nothing much. I am studying for engineering and writing a hell lot of exams. I am not at all creative. Not read a book completely. But I am cool....ain’t I? I mean I don’t lack anything and people like me.” With that he winked and smiled beautifully for her. Devi took a deep sigh and asked Nandan “ Do you have an aim ? I mean did you any time of your life want to be someone or to do something on your own. Did you choose engineering because you like designing and building things? I know many people would have asked you the same question, but still answer me.” Nandan was not been asked this question before. He himself didn’t ask this question before. He never liked to be an engineer. His wish was to be a traveller. See whole of the world. What he liked was hitchhiking. But his Pa had joined him in this college. He always thought that there is plenty of time to travel. He never complained. “ Why are you asking me these questions, I am not part of your docu. Why are you asking me which has nothing to do with your life” Nandan’s tone was a little harsh. He was actually trying to figure out the answer the question while he was talking to her.

Devi remained calm. She didn’t say anything to him. Just rested her head on her leg. It was then Nandan noticed her eyes. She had removed the glasses. Her dark eyes which he had missed to notice when had first seen her. He could now see them. It was filled with sorrow, pain, humiliation and weight. As she closed her eye a little dew appeared from nowhere in the corner. The train moved. Nandan reached out his hand and placed it in on her head. She regained herself by his touch. And she looked directly into his eyes. So fierce that he was forced to take back his hand. She smiled and said she was ok. Nandan couldn’t figure out anything. The train had gathered speed and the wind was strong.

Devi began to speak. “ You must have a definite end and definite means to live out your life . You should not waste your life like the beautiful bird which is locked up in a cage, I would say live like a wasp, which even though doesn’t live for a long period but when it lives it is the master of its will. Haven’t you found the wasp interesting enough.....”. Nandan thought of wasps. He could understand what she was trying to tell him or rather teach him. His silence made her repeat the question. “ Haven’t you? ”. Nandan replied “ Naah....all that interests me these days are quantum mechanics and to be frank is the changing fashion. I never got time to think about wasps. Is that bad? I mean to not know what the life of a wasp is.” Now it was Devi’s turn to reply him. “ Nope. Its not bad. You know what wasps too are the children of monsoon. Like us.” By saying that she got up and went to the cabin. Nandan too went inside cursing his heart to stop acting as a puppet . She took off her glasses and looked out of the window as if she recognised the place. Nandan knew that they must be somewhere near Ernakulum. Time flew when they were together.

“ Where are you getting off?” Nandan asked innocently. “ Alwaye. The town in bed of Periyar river. That’s where I am goanna be from now.” Nandan had one more question ready for her “ Why are you so sad? Why after having everything, your eyes betray your heart? Why monsoons offspring are you self inflicting the veins of your heart? Why? ” But all that came out of his mouth was the word “Why?”.

He was not sure that she said it or he imagined to hear it “ Because, I drank the poison of knowledge. Because I know.” Nandan got to know that she had gone when the train screeched into stop at the station. He jogged to the door and looked for her. She had gone. He wanted to ask her what she said was. He wanted her to explain the last sentences she had told. He didn’t find her. The train began to move. Within seconds the rhythm of the train changed. Nandan looked down and saw underneath the mist covered Periyar was flowing fast and clear.

He thought he saw her once again, standing in the platform side to the rails. Her face suddenly was covered by the morning mist. Nandan went back to the cabin and sat there. Then in the first rays of the morning sun, those little orange beams, he saw a chunk papers where she was sitting. He took the papers which was neatly stapled. His heart pounded to see the title “ The Monsoon’s Offspring ”. He scuffled through the pages, written in Devi’s handwriting.

The last page of the script had something scribbled under it in dark green ink. It was written “ Not Accepted. Try to write sum thing sane. Not the rubbish about rains.” The date under the signature was yesterday’s. Nandan remembered Devi’s face. The last time he saw it, mist had covered everything, everything, including the eyes from which dew used to be born.

The heaven in my hand

Raghuram.R

Some beliefs are to be kept safe from others so that they do not get tampered by others.

Some thoughts are to be kept in the abyss of heart so that they won’t get shattered by others.

And some lives are to be kept silent just because they like to be silent.

The First Day

Everything starts here. Everything starts today. Monotony will let him rest. Ram was happy. He was happy because he enjoys life when he was here. He could say that he will live for the coming seven days.

It was obvious why Ram knew that his life was like a cycle. He had nothing to do other than his routine life. Life had to be like a rotten egg that is cursed to be the same for eternity. He had no friends to roam with or any interest in anything that would make him happy. From his childhood itself he wanted to be someone who is admired by others. Loved and taken care of. And as always in life the opposite happened. He became the one to take care of others; he became the one to solve the problems.

Problems he couldn’t understand at all. He lived in a metropolis where everyone was in a magical spell enchanted to not to be aware others life. They all did something. Something so that they never would realise that they were bound to act like that. Ram always had the instinct to think about what he or others were doing. He knew he too was part of the play. He thought one day he will regenerate and be a new person who knows why he is living, why he is learning, why he is working like a clock.

Why there is the cycle of life?

An excess of yellow

The water was green and warm. It reached up to his knee. But it was a great experience. Free from the tangled noises he usually heard in his crammed bathroom. The unconditional humming of his neighbours which stole the very bit optimism that once he will be free for ever from the drizzling bathroom of 12b.He was alone and the evening was yellow. A strong wind swept out of the yellow sky as if it was a breeze from the mouth of a yellow cloud. He wasn’t thinking. That thought itself made him think why he wasn’t .He knew the answer .A heaven he thought he had lost when he was young, a place where he could spend 7 days of his 365 days of the year without thinking. Without moving, unaware of the others. Without blaming the life he was having. That is the reason he wasn’t thinking.

As he was standing in the pool in which he used to swim until his eyes turned red as of a rabbit’s in his childhood, he could see the change that monotony had brought in him. He smiled faintly. He found that too hard. He was most happy for the time at which he was there. A yellow evening. As he always wished. There was an excess of yellow. He was always fascinated with the colours of the world. He found most of the things on the road of any metropolis had yellow in it. The banners, the yellow neon lights, the auto rickshaws, even number plates. It was then, he termed it as an excess of yellow.

Ram couldn’t help the tear that rolled of his dark unlevelled cheek. It seemed to be a shining pearl sliding down the coal. I think the tears left ripples in the green pond as he left.

The Night of Rain

He sat on the cold floor that was once black as the night and now has faded with dirty wet footprints. He sat there shaking his legs too vigorously. He was happy as the wind carried the smell of a rare night flower. He was happy to get rid of the rotting smell of everything that was dumped in front of his flat.

Suddenly as that he heard the drummer coming. Swift as a memory, the rain drifted upon his old bungalow. The mist of water sprayed over his face. He could do nothing else than to sigh. An impotent sigh he thought. The sigh couldn’t father a cry nor be the mother of happiness. It tended to be simply a sigh. Yet it seemed to him great sitting there watching over the droplets falling as if it were his child. Loving each drop as he had loved none. Those droplets for which he would do anything. He didn’t understand why he loved the night rains the most. He knew he just did.

He laid down there and closed his eyes and started humming an old song.......

“Rathri mayzha......chumate keeyunnu......ratrimazhayodu njan parayatte....... ninte shokardramam sangeetham ariyunnu njan....” The song went on..... to compare the life of the night rain which cries through out the night and by morning smiles for others......He was astonished when he realised the meaning of the lyrics......The old song that he was singing while he was laying down in the dark floor which now shined with droplets of rain was about him......know he knew why he loved the night rain.

Rising from Heart

It was early morning. Ram as if he was waiting for the first beam of light of his precious 3^rd day out of the seven. He wished the 3^rd never came. He couldn’t bare the idea of going back to the enchanted world. He liked what it is here. He always wanted to be here. Where he could smoke all alone for the whole night without wondering the next days schedule over and over. Wait for the first ray of light. Do any absurdity without intending to do it. Where the magic of the city never worked. Where he could think why he wasn’t thinking. He could love unconditionally a raindrop. Where the fumes he inhaled came back as if it was from his heart. Rising in the shape of his ugly face. Reflecting him in the moonlit night.

He thought the fumes are his pains that rise from his heart. His heart that is filled with anger, fear, love, happiness. Those grey fumes rising as if his heart was steaming for a long period of time. Like a volcano being ready to erupt. Suddenly as that in the open horizon he could see that. The light. The red light as if some one’s blood had been smeared over the sky. A cold breeze had made the fumes drift away from him. He felt relaxed. Some how the volcano died even though he knew it was for a short period. He threw away the cigarette walked towards the sun. And opened his arms wide as if he was crucified. Somewhere near the fumes hadn’t ceased to rise in the shape of his ugly face.

The rhythm

The mood was set. The noon was hot. The rhythm was in the air. He could feel the pressure of rhythm of the 22 chenda vibrating some where around his chest and his ear drums. The drummer was enjoying the activity of flexing his hands to make the rhythm flow easily. Even though Ram grew up to this rhythm for his childhood he didn’t understand the rhythm, he never enjoyed it to the maximum. He was mere there. Watching the drummer sweat and still nodding his head as he enjoys the rhythm.

The idea of living life to the full, to the extreme, was a one that ram always adored of. He never could do anything to the extreme. He couldn’t love, he couldn’t hate, nor could he bear the extremes. He fancied the drummer; he could enjoy without any limit the rhythm. He could create it, manipulate it, enjoy it in its fullness. Enter a trance where nothing else lived. The drummer and his rhythm. Suddenly the rhythm began to tighten itself; more sweat flowed down the long neck of the rhythm maker. The vibrations echoed the whole of the house. The rhythm was at its zenith. Then as in love it all ceased, ceased to exist. The rhythm was gone, gone from him for the whole of next year.

The sweating drummers went off to have sizzling sodas and cold buttermilk. Ram went near to the resting chenda and took the drumstick as if it was weapon for him to fire the rhythm. He adjusted the chenda on his shoulder and began to beat it. It produced sounds. Unfamiliar sounds. That was not the rhythm. It was then he suddenly remembered, he was not meant for it.

Stolen glances

Her hand, fragile, wet, so thin. She never wore any bangles nor any ornament. She was beautiful even without any. He remembered how for the whole of a night he held her hand so tight as if he feared he will loose her after some time. They didn’t talk much to each other but yet through silence they conveyed a lot. All this happened a year before. When both ram and the thin girl of his dream, had said she loved him. And he too thought that was it. He experienced love as he never had before. But she, the thin girl who was brought up in a land which he disliked didn’t know the value of true love. She was playing games with him. For her that was a hobby.

A year had passed. She was there as the same little thin girl with her beautiful smile. He still loved her. He didn’t tell her that. He didn’t think that was necessary. She still had an aura around her. He couldn’t resist looking at her. Or rather glancing at her.

Standing in the dark watching the sky with glimmering lights of the fire work, he glanced at her every time while the lights shattered into tiny bits of sparkle. In that orange and red light of the sparkles his were the only eyes that were glancing her. He thought that her beauty was stealing him. Stealing his glances away from the fireworks. Even though he knew that she had tricked him, played a game with him, he was still thinking of her. Thinking of the stolen glances.

The Last Day

Everything ends here. Everything ends today. Monotony will dance without pause for the next year. Ram was happy. He was happy because he enjoyed life when he was here. He could say that he lived for the past seven days.

Out of all the madness of the enchanted cities, the spellbound world, he was at a place were magic ceased without reason. Where tears left ripples in the green pond, where night rains remind him of life, where fumes reflect his face in the moonlight, where drummers sweat and where his glances were stolen by a beautiful girl. He thought, on the last day he had every reason to be happy.

As Ram closed his eyes before the deity of the temple he was not praying, he was understanding that there only one thing that he had done to the extreme and that was living life there. He understood that to fulfil ones thirst for knowledge he must break the chain of usual thinking. He must enter a trance where only the person and his passion exist. Like that of him and his absurdities. One must live with the zest for living, with a little craze. He opened his eyes and thanked everything that was there. It was for him to experience this, there was the cycle of life. It was monotony who gave way to his new learning’s.

He was relived.

He was leaving. Walking with a pace, out of what he called his heaven. He felt like these seven days here is the hope for him to live the whole next year. He was happy to know that this is not the last day. In the memory of these seven days he is going to live the next year and again the seven days are going to come. Filled with absurdities and anarchy of a soul. Of his soul.