Spectacles of Misinterpretations

On the Third Planet from the sun, in a speck of speck of land in down-south Kerala, there lies K(adakkavoor)-the-village…

That’s where Nishi-the-Narcissist’s Gran lived.

Nishi was 16 then.
And not much of a writer, per se.

Monsoon is like the smell in my nose. That of mud-lined walls and algal moss on them wet and green.

…The heady smells of kayals and the rotting coconut fibers told her that she’d be going there sometime later…

“It was plain prophesy that I chose to write on that monsoonmorning …” later after being there, she’d come back to think.
“Humans are a paradoxical lot”. Sandhya was right.
Sandhya, her English Teacher at Arya, the school she studied in.

K. is where I spent a lil’ part of my early childhood. But it’s really unimportant ‘cause I’ve no real memories there and I don’t wish to fake memories.

There’s the Ol’ House.
There’s the usual Mad Aunt. There’s the Evil Other Aunt.
Both of who I’ve in no way any such compassion for. They exist ‘cause almost everyone has to have relatives.

There are secrets in my head. There are Realities too.
That was the time when Gran was terribly sick. She was getting leaner, worsening at a steady rate.

Mad Aunt has a daughter, Kuttithevangu*.
Monsoon is like a fickleminded Aunt.
You never know when.

Evil Aunt has a daughter, I dunno her, I dunno her name.
The season should end soon. There are less mating frogs. The rains are thinning, which was now just more than a drizzle.

At Kadakkavoor, Gran is given only bananas.
So that she’d shit less. Ahem.

Nishi walked out into the day.

She clicked away at her camera. The sky held no clouds. An optimist’s day.
The day bright and cool. Time seemed to freeze within those images.
Three-quarter a month later she’d be standing next to the Jackfruit tree, but not right under the Red Ant’s Nests.

A record player in the distance would be playing –

“Yeh jo zindagi hai,
Koi kaarwa hai,
Kahan jayegi
Yeh khabar kahan hai …”

When she’d returned feelings were shoving deep inside her for some reason she didn’t know.
She’d been there quite a few times but this visit seemed different. It was like she took a lot away from there unasked.

“A tawny tubby cat would be shredding newspaper on the other side of the road where I’d be looking.
The season has turned harsh in little over 2 weeks.
Dark clouds would be Quarrelling Cousins arguing crumbling”.


Nishi’s necktop archives would be brewing Jack-In-The-Box kinda thoughts.

teethlessjawysmileofthemidgetlady whitedahlias mudpuddles blackpeppervines childrenrollingtoycarts soundsoftrainindarktunnel purringcats flirtingdragaonflies traumaaggressionaround oldmanpissingintothegutter desolationdesperationinher

They returned home about midday.

Sometimes Life is like a shabby handwriting written and interpreted differently.

Someone rang the Sekhars up from a 2 am sleep.
The Three-quarter had ended.

They were in the car to K. when the drizzle set in. Life went flashing past the carwindows and sped away as it came closer.
That’s when it crosses your mind, trapped in the rude tentacles of Pathetic Fallacy or some similar stupid thing.

The story builds up in Nishi.
Gran who loved her daughters more than her sons.

Daughters who loved her mom enough to let her die.
Daughters who fed her bananas to make her shit less.

And she died Gran dear.

Her Dad didn’t cry at his mother’s funeral. Nishi too didn’t but could feel something viscous like MaggotsinMucus seething in her heart.

The Ol’ Lyrics return wandering –

“Yeh jo zindagi hai,
Koi daastha hai,
Kab hoga kya,
Yeh khabar kahan hai”

Though not the Story-telling Sort, and though she didn’t get enough chances to be and talk with her grandchildren, she loved her Daughter’s daughters more.
Nishi was her Dad’s daughter. Ahem.

The Season drew itself close into that controlled chaotic finale.
Matingfrogs found their fate. Dogs limped away.

Anotherseason began.
Of Quarrelling in that Ol’ House.
Of Partition and Shares.

She closed her Notebook and went to Bed.

*Not a real name (Some names have been changed to protect privacy).

For A.
For not being mine.