The Mehta Boys - Seeking Closure

 

(Disclaimer : Not a review. Spoilers ahead). 

I loved the movie...the story telling, the way the layers and dynamics just unravelled, the acting... everything. 

(I especially loved Puja Sarup! Such a natural! - her exasperation, the quiver in her voice- every breath, timbre and gasp! Anu's melt downs were so relatable. Watching her  was extremely cathartic! I kept going back again and again just to watch her- listen to her- the shrugs, the flinches- the minutest gestures- the seen- the unseen- the spoken, the unspoken...I wanted to hug her tight- especially during those scenes at the airport. It would have felt like I was hugging myself!) 

However, however...this is just my response to the narrative...a very subjective take moulded by the 'personality of me'.

I found the ending moving. The farewell between the Mehta Boys was very soothing , reassuring and yet...

The way the resolution between the Mehta Boys is achieved did not give me closure, in fact it was triggering...

My heart bled for Amay. So much so that Mehta senior's grief , bereavement, having to leave his home of 70 plus years all just vapourised- pfffft... 

Let me explain. Yet again the trauma, the continuous chipping away of the offspring's self-esteem, the constant taunts were not fully acknowledged, validated suitably is how I perceived it.

Yet again, the parent gets away with having meted out such extreme humiliating jabs and barbs with regard to the offspring's job, his driving, living style, why- his very existence was viewed with disdain. But then Mehta senior is the parent, the older person with more experience and wisdom...and parental intent can never be questioned.

Even the 'girl friend' / 'fiancé' accuses Mehta Junior of having been callous -  his attempt to pre-empt his father's possible humiliation at the restaurant is held circumspect, all his hurt and pain is completely invalidated, trivialised because after all it was his 'Father' ! - that significant biological detail legitimises everything! 

And finally, it is shown that  Mehta Junior 'realises' that after all, his father was only trying to 'prepare' him...after all a parent can never go wrong in his intention...the son's professional success also stems out of an epiphany sparked by an acerbic barb  articulated by the sniggering parent! He is 'grateful' for the taunt that steered him in the 'right direction' which in fact was again along the clichéd tropes of- 'an ode to the good old days', ‘blindly aping the west’, ‘forgetting our traditions’  etc. etc...

It is Mehta Junior who is reformed, who comes around to placate the wounded parent...

How I wish that  it was shown that the father realises he had been lacerating the son's sense of identity and existence; How I wish that the father had articulated clearly his remorse - at having treated the adult son so harshly in words and action.

Instead  the onus is  upon the bruised and broken Mehta Junior who  has to regret, repent, commiserate, extend the proverbial olive branch - mend the broken bridge- which is fine-  because after all, families are worth it. It doesn't pay to hold grudges between parents and offspring. Believe me, I am all for it from the POV of the larger picture. Been there, done that and shall continue to do so ...

How I see it is that the concept of Parental behaviour /gaslighting is being excused as always. The glorification of parental autonomy remains unaddressed, continues to be subtly perpetuated. The offspring in every generation is conditioned  to feel guilty. The parent in every generation is conditioned to be above all censure,  feel entitled, bolstered by the holier than thou attitude.

How I wish that it was depicted that the generational cycle of inflicting trauma-(unconsciously perhaps) was broken;  that Respect and not Condescension should be the healing salve in soothing bruised relationships.

I longed for that gesture from Mehta Senior- I think it would have been a closure  for many an offspring. I so wish that somebody tries to change the narrative - and probably a pointer towards breaking generational cycles?

P.S: Read this : https://bollyspice.com/boman-irani-speaks-about-his-deft-directorial-debut-in-the-mehta-boys/ and got a glimpse into the writer’s intent and perspective. 

 Just because we are no longer friends

That doesn't make us enemies though

Perhaps you have not noticed

But You have grown larger- in your eyes

You have gone farther- in your strides

Perhaps You have not noticed but

You now speak down

From high up there 

It is now all patronizing conceit

The easy banter, the kind cheer not any more 

The gentle, equal vibes no longer exist

I still am glad to see you happy

But the comfort and solace have long gone...

Just because we are no longer friends

That doesn't make us enemies though

Inspired from Tupac Shakur's quote

हम दोस्त नहीं रहे -तो क्या हुआ

दुश्मन भी तो नहीं हैं हम

आप को शायद इस का एहसास नहीं

लेकिन हमें ज़रूर महसूस हुआ 

आप अपने ही आखों में बड़े होते गए

आप ऊंचाईयों में टहलने लगे

जहां हमारी आवाज़ नहीं पहुँच सके 

आप  बहुत आगे निकल गए

शायद आप ने गौर नहीं किया 

पर अब आप ऊंचाईयों से 

नीचे की तरफ आखें बिछाकर पेशाते हैं

और हमारे बीच की दूरी बढ़ती गई

अब यह फासला  जो हमारे बीच बने

तय करना है नामुमकिन

वह हँसी,  वह मजेदार किस्से

वह अपनापन , वह  आराम

वह सांत्वना , वह तस्सल्ली

अब नहीं रहा

पर इस के बावजूद 

आप की खुशी में हम अब भी शामिल हैं

पर वह मेल जोल , वह साथ बस न रहा

हम दोस्त नहीं रहे- तो क्या हुआ

दुश्मन थोडे हैं हम

REVIVAL

 

Turned away from words and meanings 

When everything else seemed trivial 

in the face of mundane battles

Today your departure has triggered 

Something which has no name 

from deep within the dark recesses of the mind

The thoughts refuse to be stopped

Daring to be attired in cloaks of words

Breathless trying to rein them in, tame them 

Chores beckon 

But unable to pay attention 

Unruly words curdling and frothing

The thoughts refuse to stop

For whatever it is worth or not 

What might have been written that day in the letter

No fragment of memory lingers

But the reply that was received 

Those moments when you picked up that pen 

and let the words flow onto the paper 

like many a time before

And many a time after

But those moments it was just you and me!!!

Thank you for reintroducing me to myself

Who had been buried under an 

avalanche of contrived indifference

Thank you for letting me find me 

For now at least

I had been lost and floundering

The captivity was paralysing

I was angry with words and words paid no heed 

Thank you for helping me reinvent myself

Thank you for allowing me to speak again to myself 

Thank you for reminding me to listen to myself 

For now that is 

I am rambling but I am revelling in the freedom

The shackles have been broken for now at least

Let me peep out, let me venture for some time at least

Until worldly matters banish me 

to the netherworlds of silence and apathy yet again

I seek no external visibility 

For now becoming visible for myself shall suffice

Whom are we celebrating 

Whom are we mourning

Us ..

those layered slivers of us 

revealed to us

Multiple epiphanies unravelled 

Thank you for the Visibility 

Thank you for the Validation 

Thank you for the Resurrection 

That is… for now at least…

Thank you for being the you in the me

And the me in the you ( Like someone famously uttered) 

( Written when the great writer M.T.Vasudevan Nair passed on...)

Vaanaprastham

 

 I have seen “Vaanaprastham”, but had heard abt it soooo much that when I finally saw it, it was a bit of a disappointment-

In “Vaanaprastham”, what I liked was this concept of being enamoured by the character that an artiste plays- the Kathakali role is so much larger than life, that the artistes themselves tend to identify themselves with a particular character- it is added to their name often- fans also fall in love with the character- Once, the artiste dons the make-up, wears the costume, most of them even change their gait, mannerisms- the role just overpowers the man! It is amazing to watch the transformation. But most artistes have this habit of heavy drinking that it comes in the way of performance and the glory of the role is sometimes reduced to comic, pathetic dimensions! It has happened to the greatest of actors!

Here, in this movie, Subhadra/ Suhasini falls in love with Arjuna and not the actor playing him- Mohanlal- I forget the name of the character in the movie- but obviously The persona behind Arjuna fell for Subhadra’s  attention, and he feels cheated when he comes to know that she was actually in love with the character he played on stage. And he seeks revenge by tainting, rather mutilating the image of Arjuna that she cherished in her heart by enacting that very role and having Subhadra’s role played by his daughter! Subhadra is mortified, pained to see her idol being reduced to such a base paradigm- and that was the very intention of the protagonist. Only, towards the end of the movie, she gets to see a glimpse into the man behind the role and by then it is too late!

I also enjoyed watching the Gurubhakti depicted by Mohanlal’s character, actually, Kathakali is one of the few institutions that still has its roots in the Gurukula tradition. One has got to see the respect and awe  the shishyas have for their Aasans-teachers.

 

Aimless in Banaras - Bishwanath Ghosh

 

Aimless in Benaras - it's been a couple of days since I finished reading this book by Bishwanath Ghosh- I noticed that I had purchased the book in 2020 , but I picked it up to read only now!!??  

Just got all tangled up in the web of life I guess and perhaps now was the right time...

Bishwananth Ghosh is a writer whom I think, each reader by the time they finish reading his book, will feel that they know him very well. I have read all his other books. It is the way he writes- a breezy, conversational style...like old friends meeting up for a cup of chai chai across a rustic table in an old tea- coffee shop.  However, I know that I shall perhaps never go on such a rendezvous, given that I tend to be very wary of meeting people face to face- I can get completely tongue tied. Quite an irony if you had an inkling of the ruckus that goes on in my head nonstop. All that loquaciousness, garrulousness reserved for writing out. The tangible human being unnerves me. 

While I can converse almost incessantly in my head or on paper/ monitor- (but then even that gets edited), place me in front of an intelligent being and I shall go all silent after the initial cursory small talk. 

So Benaras is a place that does not figure in my list of dream destinations...the other places that Bishwanath took us along with him...seemed quaintly interesting. Aimless in Benaras, as much as I enjoyed Bishwanath's rambling style as always, still the mental association of the place with Death around every corner was extremely discomfiting. The stark, austere ambience, the dinghy, smoky gullies, the ubiquitous crowd and most imposing of all- the constant, looming proximity of that great leveller- filled my soul with a sense of doom.

Ironically, it is this very Benaras which has acquired an abiding sense of equanimity.

And it is in fact his writing style in fact which  is the saving grace and transforms the reading experience.

The essence of certain lines were reassuring and redeeming in a strange way- 

That since you are anyway going to be a heap of ash someday, you might as well be happy...

Sometimes it is this very fact that feels actually discouraging to try to be happy because anyway in the end nothing mattered, everything would end up in sorrow...What was the point in trying to dredge for happiness when you know it wouldn't last...

And yet, the way Bishwanath arrives at and lead us too towards this acceptance and surrender- I found myself free of fears and insecurities (for the time at least) because I am made to realise time and again that in the end nothing matters.

It is all a matter of perspective and to be able to trudge uphill or downhill, it made sense to look from the better perspective...it helps in the journey.

And then the objective recounting of the demolitions and divisiveness ... gives the reader a dispassionate purview of incidents that have unfolded. In today's times, one is compelled to become circumspect of everything...one is never sure about the hidden agenda. The narrator simply reports conversations of the people who are directly impacted ...their clarity of thought lends credibility to the consequences of the narrative that is being slowly and deliberately scripted/generated....

Bishwanath's travelogues are so different- that one doesn't even want to call it a travelogue- it is such a personal jaunt, the perceptions, the perspectives, the insights are Bishwanath's personal responses to the sights, sounds and people around him- and it is through this trek that he takes us along- it is a favour to the reader- that fly on the wall vantage is what makes the entire sojourn a unique experience for the reader.  

Shhh...

 

My God is now too personal, too precious to me, can't bear to think that it is the same entity that all the others are loudly bandying about...creating such a furore, fighting and screaming .

I can't bear your name being taken in hatred and anger. They have tainted my moments of Divine ecstasy with their craving for vengeance and sense of vendetta. I no longer want to wear any symbols or badges of religion

I want to nestle your presence deep in my soul in a sea of love, compassion. 

I want to keep you safe within me, hidden from the world who either perceive you as something to prove a point with or as a weapon of loathing and destruction. It hurts to think that they make you the reason for so much of hatred and conflict, all the arson and bloodshed all in your name…

Is it actually you that they are talking about ?

Down to Earth...

 

That brief interlude of recklessness, abandon...paved the way to future understanding, being non judgemental.

That she was the one with unrealistic expectations ...looking for magical beads to be strung in the tapestry of life...

That he was contented, without questioning, without demands for magic, Stardust and so on...

He was happy with little things...she could hear his laughter in the background as he was watching some video of a little precocious child...

He was chuckling in absolute delight

And that because of the brief derailment which was not detrimental she also arrived at a plateau of apparent peace-contentment..

No longer in search of something else...

In a space of acceptance without resistance, she was ready to let go of aspirations of something magical without rancour or disillusionment...it no longer mattered...

Perhaps that brief phase of madness was required for her to arrive at this state of placidity

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

Reality Bites

 

There always exists a plane- a virtual plane of possibilities and probabilities of places, persons, relationships that were never ventured,  explored, never given a chance. A zone of 'could've beens' 'might have beens'. And because of this very elusive nature, they always present a most enticing, exciting potential. That virtual space is always magical, mystical because one shall never know...

But the truth is Reality sucks, stings, bites...

The sheer accessibility, approachability, tangibility does not fail to shatter  the magical, elusive quality to smithereens. 

So it is reassuring to think that what never transpired would surely lose all its enchantment and magic if it had actually transpired.

One step at a time...

 

Sometimes one is fed up of being in the moment, seizing the moment...focussing on one step at a time...when one can't be sure of the long tedious path ahead...when the trudge seems to be uphill, steep ...one is focussing on the next step simply because there is no other option the light at the end of  the tunnel is not visible...

Vantage View

 

Trying to be a writer, makes one constantly feel like one was watching incidents as they transpire, even if one is a participant, or even if it is happening to oneself, as if one was perched on a vantage point or in more contemporary terms, like one was this drone hovering above an event as it unfolded - an aerial view...or like the proverbial fly on the wall

Perceptions

 

The awareness of distaste, bitterness, vileness in another's mind against you, if it haunts you is it because one is needy , needy for approval, to maintain a goody goody image, need to be liked by everyone if possible, makes one willing to withdraw from arguments, avoid confrontations, willing to even apologise for a perceived wrong being committed and if yes is that a bad thing...

About how people perceive you, read you, your actions, behaviour, words, interpret and go on with complete conviction that what they have understood of you is 100% correct and accurate...and you move on thinking that you are projecting yourself in a particular way without  an inkling that the two are so different...it is sometimes so amusing...and what you  actually are is also probably an illusion

Mundane Banter

 

They would narrate memories so innocently, cast aspersions so gently that they landed without a flutter. But she knew that they were not malicious by intent - it was more an instinct of self- righteousness, a 'holier than thou attitude'. 

Well-meaning adults of that era would have imbibed such nasty traits of pettiness – without realising it- and would vehemently deny if confronted with it. They believed that they were the epitome of Humanity, consideration benevolence and compassion. However,  their statements in fact were most judgmental, tactless and insensitive. They would cheerfully narrate stories of seemingly harmless anecdotes- but would very casually insert nuggets of criticism and mockery. They would however couch it in a deceptive aura of amusement, fake appreciation what we call as back handed compliments.

 

She was told how the children of her family would come to the temple tank wearing red konakam- loincloth. They said that they looked so cute and charming- wearing the red ones- the ones that only children of the ____ community wore- and not what the Ambalavasis wore. The Ambalavasi children –wore the white ones…

Another story that was meant to regale was how her grandfather neglected acknowledging them during earlier days- in spite of being his kin- however he was overly attentive to the others from the ‘Big House.’ – implying that this was because of the latter's higher standing in society.  How they would wait eagerly to be noticed by the illustrious uncle- the grandfather - but never did and how they had felt so hurt. 

How her grandfather was so fond of wearing gold jewellery- multiple chains and rings…all this was said in a tone of apparent casual mention masking the veiled scorn. 

Then there was this other story of how he did not think twice about usurping a water pot that was gifted to his daughter at her wedding- which would have actually been so useful for the latter because she was to live in a place where water was scarce. 

She had also been advised to be kind and not  demand share of the family property and be generous to the said aunt!! Talk about crossing boundaries and that too based on false assumptions and in the pretext of being benevolent and compassionate.

There was this other tale of how her proud grandmother had this infamous rivalry with another matriarch of the ‘Big House’. How they vied with each other for putting down the other- a constant show of one up man (woman?) ship.  All these stories were undoubtedly narrated with harmless intent and was being shared for mere conversation- and she had to sit there listening feeling very blessed to be privy to such enticing family lore. She was thus regaled by such stories of her family’s pettiness and foibles in a tone of benevolent banter.

She used to get very incited in the earlier days because she had to listen to these stories attentively and with feigned interest. To have responded in any other manner would have been inappropriate. Her indignation would have been perceived as hypersensitivity, misunderstanding innocent banter as malicious- that was so not done, and so she would sit right there listening to the stories of her family’s indiscretions and foibles with amicable nods and a sagacious smile.

She was informed with a cheeky chuckle how the children of her family were called the ‘Dark pack’ because they were dusky in complexion – and hirsute to top- this was hilarious because while the ‘smooth, hairless band took pride in their ‘smooth skin’- her family sneered that the ‘hairless’ were butter skinned- including the men- because obviously to be macho one needed to be blessed with a fair amount of hair. So, Body shaming was the norm and was indulged in like there was no tomorrow-

Sensitivity, kindness, tact, compassion was gibberish- and for the ‘touch me nots’. To take offence to such ‘harmless’, ‘witty’ banter would have been sacrilegious. One would be labelled as intolerant, over sensitive, fussy, and temperamental to imagine insinuations in mundane conversations!

As a young bride, one was eager to impress with one’s housekeeping skills, cooking prowess. One went to extraordinary lengths to keep everything spic and span- but when the inspection retinue arrived- woe be to you- as if they would even notice the effort! The ‘benevolent’ family that they believed themselves to be, would rearrange every single thing in the house- including the delicates in her cupboards. Her saris would be cut up to sew curtains- without even a cursory ‘by your leave’. All the groceries would have changed places, and she would have to hunt for condiments in her own kitchen. One evening, when she had returned after an errand, the dining hall had been transformed  into the storeroom and vice versa .  

For years, she tried to convince herself that these were all acts of kindness and magnanimity. Eventually, when she had learnt to navigate her way through ‘housekeeping- they still found it necessary to guide her. Much later, when she finally asserted her freedom in her own home it was perceived as an act of rebellion!

Sanctuary- A Mirage

 

It is so evident- that sense of relief that they don’t have to bear with this kind of behaviour for too long- that they were glad that they had a place to run off to- to escape- to get away- a place that was so much more better. A life that was so much more alluring, so much more empowering . How did she feel about it- she tried to make some sense of her thoughts .

She had no such place to get away to- no place to return to- for this life was what she had to experience- there was no running away. This was the yarn that the tapestry of her life was made of. While she believed that she did not feel resentful- she did feel wistful. She felt that there was only so much that she could make the best of. There were boundaries that couldn’t be crossed. She realised that she had to accept her reality- and best without rancour, regret or resentment. 

Some conversations refused to be wiped away from memory- like the time when she overheard them saying how glad they were that they had made the decision to go away- far away from this place. That their home was elsewhere- they were willing to stretch themselves a bit now ad then because they had the reassurance of getting away soon- away from it all- to another world afar- a world of wishes and choices coming alive. She found herself wondering if she was living in a lesser place. 

Perhaps it was all a mirage where the grass always looks greener on the other side.   

She knew she had to make peace with her reality, convince herself that the existence of  a sanctuary was in the mind. 

Alter ego

 

When one has so much to tell, so much to express but one has no suitable listeners- at least not the kind one aspires for- because the ideal listener could only be oneself. However, the thoughts needs to be expelled- the words need to be uttered- albeit soundlessly. And when one writes it down in words- lo behold! It is like one has the ideal listeners arrayed right there in front - hanging on to every single articulation!  

The other day I was reading a renowned author's reminiscences- the person in the writings was so loquacious- Here was a person who has so much to say- so many observations, so many insights, opinions. A whole new person emerged couched in the armour of words.  

In real life he comes across as so remote, so distant- his demeanour always so stoic and grim, as if he actually abhors company. The people who are familiar with this outward persona wearing the mask of inscrutability - would hardly be able to believe or even imagine the gamut of thoughts and emotions running amok within.  A soul that throbbed so tremulously, and yet concealed so adroitly. The readers upon getting acquainted with  the hidden thoughts crystallised in words are amazed that the entity revealed in the writings and the outward opaque persona were one and the same.

This world of words and language of the author feels like an invitation into the sacrosanct precincts of another universe – the doors are left wide open for the reader to explore, to relate, connect and marvel- every nook and cranny, every tile and crevice feel familiar. 

 

We the readers, are given access to that hidden persona only through the world of words- and not otherwise- nobody gets a peek into it any other way. It is like this whole another person was caged within the deceptively grim, stoic carapace. This was someone who was trapped and yet did not seek freedom in the mundane manner- someone who would leap into the external canvas only through the strokes of the pen. As the readers get familiar with the rambunctious, impish person who is so fascinating within the sheath of assumed indifference and enigma, and then when they encounter the forbidding eyes on the countenance – the impact is mindblowing! 

The reader experiences an impish delight at having caught somebody red handed while indulging in some maverick mischief and is compelled to feel a camaraderie- almost to a back slapping level- with the writer of these thoughts- and yet the forbidding visible demeanour makes the reader ponder if one of them is an impostor- the writer or the written!??

Writing Exercise...

 

I have this weird thing about smells and odours that emanate from living bodies. It grosses me out completely. The most charismatic person or the most sublime entity- the thought that such people emanating BO, bad breath, digestive gases grosses me out. 

For eg; when I watch a scene in movies where the hero and the heroine wake up and then cuddle- kiss- I keep thinking about morning breath- ya, I know they are acting- but I can't help thinking about couples kissing in the morning - grosses me out!

Why do I even think of such things- don’t ask me. Why do I have to let such thoughts corrupt the most sublime images and concepts- beats me. To have one’s imagination be sullied by such ideas is such a put off! I do wonder if any one in this world also thinks of such useless things- I dare not ask- what if it only me- what if I am an anomaly/ aberration- what would others think if they knew that I thought of such crazy things. 

मेरा एक विचित्र स्वभाव है. मुझे जीव जंतुवों से उद्भव होने वाली गंधों के बारे में सोचकर मन में घिन्न या  जुगुप्सा महसूस करती हूँ. प्रस्तुत व्यक्ति चाहे जितने भी प्रभावशाली हो, या फिर जितना भी सुन्दर हो- मेर मन में अचानक उसके शरीर या मुँह  से उत्पन्न होने वाली गंध के बार में याद आती है और उस व्यक्ति के मनोहर छवि चकनाचूर हो जाती है. ऐसी बेकार चीज़ों के बारे में क्यों सोचती हूँ- मुझे नहीं पता- कभी कभी सोचती हूँ की क्या कोई और इस दुनिया में मेर ेजैसे सोचने वाले भी होंगे क्या - पता नहीं- शायद नहीं - यह सवाल पूछने से भी हिचकती हूँ- शायद केवल मैं ही हूँ जो इस तरह बकवास चीज़ों के बारे में सोचती हूँ. वह लोग मेर बारे में क्या सोचेंगे अगर उन्हें मालूम हुआ की मैं इस तरह के बेकार बातों के बारे में सोचती  हूँ-

എനിക്ക് വിചിത്രമായ ഒരു സ്വഭാവമുണ്ട് . ജീവ ജാലങ്ങളിൽ നിന്ന് വമിക്കുന്ന ഗന്ധങ്ങൾ , ദുർഗന്ധങ്ങൾ എന്നിവയെ പറ്റി ഓർത്ത് അലോസരപ്പെടുക . എത്ര കേമനായ വ്യക്തിയാണെങ്കിലും , അതുല്യ സൗന്ദര്യമുള്ള വ്യക്തിയാണെങ്കിലും, അവരിൽ നിന്ന് സ്വാഭാവികമായി വമിക്കാവുന്ന ശരീര ഗന്ധം, വായ്‌നാറ്റം ദഹന പ്രക്രിയ മൂലമുളവാകുന്ന ദുർഗന്ധങ്ങൾ - എന്നിവയെ കുറിച്ച് ഓർമ്മ വരികയും - അതിനാൽ മനസ്സിൽ ഇവരെ .കുറിച്ച്  വരഞ്ഞിരുന്ന ച്ഛവിക്കു കോട്ടം തട്ടുന്നു. എന്തിനു ഇങ്ങനെയൊക്കെ ഓർക്കണമെന്ന് ചോദിച്ചാൽ അതിനുത്തരമില്ല.   ലോകത്തിൽ വേറെയാരെങ്കിലും ഇതേ മാതിരി ചിന്തിക്കുമോ - ഇല്ലായിരിക്കും. അഗ്രഗണ്യമായ/ അസുലഭ വ്യക്തിത്വത്തിനുടമയായിട്ടുള്ളവർ /സൗന്ദര്യ ധാമങ്ങളായിട്ടുള്ളവർ - ഇവരെ കുറിച്ചാലോചിക്കുമ്പോൾ , അപ്രതീക്ഷിതമായി അവരെ കുറിച്ച് ഈ വക കാര്യങ്ങളും ഓർമ്മ വരികയും, അതിനെ തുടർന്നു മനസ്സിൽ തെളിഞ്ഞിരുന്ന ഭംഗിയുള്ള ചിത്രം താറുമാറാകുന്നു . 

Memory Nuggets

 “Hello, Aditi Ma’am, are you busy?”

“No, Rasi, tell me…”

“Aditi Ma’am, you remember Manan from Steve’s batch?”

“ Ya…-

Aditi felt a small spiral of foreboding churning in the pit of her stomach. Bad news? Were the dreaded words going to be uttered from the other end?

And then there it followed- “Ma’am, Manan passed away  in a road accident some time ago- the car in which he was traveling rammed into a lorry- there were 4 other boys -  3 of them died on the spot- the other 2 are critical…

Aditi remembered asking some questions, but the answers did not register. Manan’s face flashed in Aditi’s mind- his disarming, child-like smile – the incipient moustache did not lend itself to his appearing grown up- probably, now after 4 years he must be looking more like the young man he is- was!

Aditi kept uttering ‘Chhe’- over and over again- as if the expletive would undo what had apparently happened. It was weird how sometimes one felt that if one could simply rewind a few moments, the undesirable incident could be undone.

After keeping the phone aside, Aditi was seized by an instinct to reach out to others who knew Manan- the other teachers- she dialed her friend and colleague Nayana- the line was engaged…she thought of sharing a message in her friends’ group- and then she noticed that the Principal had already shared the news in the school group and condolence messages were flowing in.

Aditi paced around the hall absentmindedly- she gazed up at the framed picture on the wall- that picture gifted to each of their teachers by Manan’s batch after the farewell 4 years ago. Her gaze remained glued on the smiling image of the boy- 2nd from right...

That moment between the ‘is’ transitioning into the ‘was’- the amorphous space was something Aditi often grappled with-. The proximity between the two moments always seemed so murky – so dicey that one deludes oneself that it was still possible to transit between one zone to the other. Why wasn’t anybody doing that- trying to turn the clock back- That nebulous margin between ‘what if’s and ‘if only’s…that one detrimental moment which could be swapped to rework Destiny… set right the world that had crumbled …Wishful thinking overpowers rationale- that zone where logic doesn’t prevail.

The images continued to float in her mind’s eye- Manan’s lanky form shuffling down the school corridor with an impish grin on his stubble ridden face. Aditi tried to remember the times they had spoken-  apart from academic concerns- she wondered if their interactions had been confined to nods and smiles of acknowledgement. Aditi had always been discomfited by the realisation that sometimes teachers had no inkling of the lives of their students beyond the precincts of the school. Aditi’s thoughts veered to Manan’s parents and a boulder sunk into the pit of her stomach.   

Aditi then dialed the Principal Ma’am’s number. The line was busy. The Principal called back in a few moments. Her voice was broken. She filled in the details- each word felt like a stab. Aditi just listened- she could find no words- just some incoherent sounds escaped her lips.

After disconnecting the call, Aditi stood in the balcony gazing unseeingly into the distance for how long, she had no idea.  As the moments slithered by like an oil slick, the sense of irrevocable doom slowly sunk in rendering a sense of utter hopelessness.

 

She was reminded of Manan’s friends. They had been such a thick band and kept in touch through the years after leaving school. They must be devastated. The thought caused a dull, nagging ache behind her eyes...solidifying into a headache. She reached out to each of them through messages.

Two days later, the boys came to meet the Principal and they asked to meet Aditi also. 

Aditi’s heart lurched when she saw the distraught boys. There were some moments of deafening silence in the room. No one could find words … finally Steve broke the ice- and then the others also shared their memory nuggets of their departed friend. Unuttered sobs and sniffles hovered in the air… and somehow there in the Principal’s cabin, Manan’s presence seemed looming amidst the grieving souls in those moments of shared loss. The boys were aching… Aditi could offer no words of solace.

The space of suspended belief is such a colloidal bubble- as she watched the receding figures of the boys, her heart went out to them- to the bereaved parents- the elder brother- and finally the tears that Aditi had been holding back with utmost effort spilled down her cheeks….