death – Swat of All Trades

I read news about four little boys being killed at a beach in Gaza City a couple of days ago.

Call me slow, but that was when the intensity of the situation in Gaza hit me. I was trying to discuss with Su and Anand about whom to support, Israel or Palestine, and was quite confused. As I have said before, I am easily influenced and if an intelligent person argues and convinces me sufficiently about something, I might just agree. But in this case, I wasn’t. I’m a peace lover (who isn’t eh?) and I don’t want war. I don’t want innocent people dying while going about their daily lives. So I can’t possibly pick sides because people are simply dying at the end of the day.

That’s when a beautiful write-up my friend wrote put things into perspective for me. His name is Varun Ram Iyer and he writes really well. Here’s what he wrote.

Will you come home tonight Papa ?!

There are big rockets in the sky,

Mother says I must hide quick under the cot.

And that I cannot go out onto the street,

And play with my friends,

Although its pleasant, if smoke filled, but she says its too hot.

I haven’t been to school all week,

Teacher will be angry.

I want to go, sit beside Salma, and laugh.

I want to do my homework, I’m hungy,

But ammi, has not cooked ghosht since you have gone.

All we have is bread now, Yasser and myself,

We sit under the table and split each slice into half.

There’s no electricity, no cartoons, no songs,

And the lights don’t come on in the night.

Wahad says they’re not firecrackers, but balls of fire that kill people,

He says that we must pick up a gun and fight.

But who are we fighting, papa, why are they killing us ?

I’ve been a good boy like you’ve told me to.

All I do is my math, and sleep at ten, and wake early,

And prepare for school – wear my uniform, comb my hair wet, and polish my shoe.

I don’t even kick soda cans at Arif the mongrel,

Because you told me that man must be nice to the animal kind.

Perhaps that doesn’t apply to humans after all,

They’re intelligent creatures with a far more evolved mind.

Papa, what is this promised land that they talk about,

And say that there is eternal peace for them to take.

But how will they celebrate over the corpses of hundreds.

After we’re all dead, will they say a prayer for their sake.

They say we started it, papa, I promise I didn’t,

I didn’t launch a Scud, I didn’t even peep out to have a look.

I’ve been sitting in my corner, all night, hungry and naked,

Witth ammi crying by my side, and reading a book.

Come home papa, we miss you, they told me,

You’ve gone to Allah, when they wrapped you in white, and took you yesterday.

There’s no water to wash the sheet, but I have a feeling,

That it wouldn’t make a difference, I don’t think those red stains will go away.

I miss you, but its alright, I’ll be a good boy,

If you’re up there with Allah, ask him a question for me if you could.

Whether this is a jihad, and whether we’re being attacked,

And is there something we must do, retailate if we should ?

Because I don’t know if I want to,

Kill other people, whoever they are,

I don’t want children on the other side, to see their fathers in a blood pool.

I’m sure they’re just as afraid,

just as hungry, just as lonely,

I’m sure they too want this to end,

So they can just wake up and go to school.

One day we will record these events in history,

And teach them to children in classrooms,

As our stories past.

But there maybe none.

No history. No classrooms .No children.

If we continue to butter our bread with bombs at breakfast.

#PrayForPalestine

I’ll leave you with that.

I thought I was over my grandmother’s passing away. Turns out I am not.

I always thought I get over people easily. When my gramma went away, I cried on the first day, shed a few tears the days that followed, but never really mourned more after that. Maybe I believed that she had left her ever-smiling, kindhearted spirit with us. Maybe I don’t miss people much when they’re not in my daily life anymore.

I cried for two days when my dog passed away. But I didn’t after that. I probably cried more when I watched Marley and Me a few months after he died.

Why I’m talking about this right now is because today, when my mother was cleaning out an old closet in my grandmother’s room (yes, after four years after she went away), she found a few sweaters. Before she put them in the machine, she just wanted to check the pockets to make sure there was nothing in there. But she found something in them. I thought it might have been money. But it was something I did not see coming. It was a Marie biscuit.

My gramma was diabetic and Marie biscuit was the only biscuit she’d eat. Every evening, she’d make tea, dip Marie biscuit in it, finish the tea and sit outside in the balcony, breaking the biscuit into pieces in her hand and then putting the pieces in her mouth, taking her time to eat it. That was one of her habits. She never bit into the whole biscuit. She never bit into apples, or carrots either… Not because she couldn’t. She had strong teeth and she never wore dentures. She just didn’t think it decent to bite into it I guess. My dad has the same habit now. Pardon the cliche, but old habits die hard indeed.

It was strange how instinctively I turned vulnerable and melancholic when my mum found the biscuit. The stable, quiet ocean in my head was suddenly unruly, like on a full moon night; the waves were roaring and ready to splash. I didn’t cry in front of my mom of course. I drank tea, sat on the porch steps enjoying the evening; Perhaps my gramma enjoyed a similar evening, sitting in her green balcony the day she forgot her biscuit in her pocket.

Then again, I guess it’s times like these that make you really mourn for someone, rather than on the day they go away. I missed my gramma the most when I used to come back from college to find a locked door, and not one that opened to her peaceful face, engrossed in some awful Kannada serial. Supriya and I, who came home from school and sat around at home, had learnt the theme song of that 4 o’ clock serial by-heart. Haha! It was the worst!

Today, I don’t know if my grandma will be proud of me. I have really short hair. She always wore a disappointed look when I cut my hair too short. She used to be so happy when it was long. I’m wearing a fitting t-shirt today. I don’t think she’ll like that either. She was the more traditional kinds, who exclaimed with joy every time she saw me wear a salwar kameez. But she never, ever, ever, told me not to do the things I did. She wouldn’t complain about how I wore my hair or my attire. She was never intrusive. She let me live my life how I wanted to. I loved that about her. And she was the person I spent most of my childhood with, more than with my mum, dad or sister. I’m glad I could share it with her.

I miss her sometimes.
I miss sleeping next to her, (something I did for around eight years).
I miss the pleasantly disturbed sleep I had in the early mornings when the signature 6 am tune on AIR played on her portable transistor, which she kept above her pillow all the time.
I miss her gruff voice, it was unique and something that I always found friendship in.
I miss the strong smell of Sensor balm, which I still associate with her.
I miss taking a bite off her crisp chapatis, dipped in sambar, when she ate two whole hours before the rest of us.

Most of all, I miss her presence in her room, crafting the perfect little birds she made tirelessly, with so much dedication, or decorating photos of Gods with chamkis and beads, and adding a touch of grandeur and royalty to them.

The last thing I said to her was “Good night,” the night before she slept forever.

Well, I hope she’s happy with my tatha, wherever she is, because I know they’re together and happy now!

I’ll see you when I see you again paati.

Sorry if this post was a bit too emo. I just had to get it out.