#aplacecalledhome

2 posts
  • insearchoftheseaandthesoul 99w

    A place called home #3

    I step out into lush greenness, the foliage thick enough to cover an elephant. The rain has just drenched the brown earth of its sorrows. The smell of mud fills the ether. A praying mantis quietly meditates on a jasmine bush. The mosquitoes are composing their own fugues and canons. The yellow butterflies with fluttering gossamer-wings circle the mauve lilies in the pond. My grandmother is reciting her prayers while still on one of her countless trips between our illam and temple. My grandfather performs his favourite ritual- reading the morning newspapers - Mathrubhumi in the vernacular and the Times in English. The smell of sandalwood wafts through as the incense sticks continue burning. Ripe, yellow mangoes have fallen on the ground and a squirrel scampers to get a bite. A man hurries along to catch the bus to go pay the electricity bill before his life goes unto darkness. Damp from the dip in the pond, a skinny lad heads to the temple to ask for forgiveness and pray for plentiful. Someone is making tea for the house- strong, light, with milk, black, with sugar, without sugar, stirred and beaten. At the corner store, people are drinking lime soda, talking about elections, weather, and football. The different umbrellas passing by forms a rainbow in itself, some use Popy, some Johns, and others plain, black ones. The sky is dark grey, overcast and rumbling. Nila is already flowing over the Pattambi paalam. It will pour a lifetime's worth by the time the Sabari Express pulls into platform 1.
    ©insearchoftheseaandthesoul

  • insearchoftheseaandthesoul 102w

    A place called home #2

    The not-so-light backpack resting on my back, I walk out onto the dusty, uneven road leading to Sitaphal Mandi station from the 3rd gate of the university campus. The crooked road is bumpy, narrow, recently dug up and filled with brown mud. Few cows graze on along the roadside. Crows and flies compete to bother them. A pack of dogs bask in the glorious June sun and rub themselves in the mud. Two other dogs are momentarily locked in a fight which soon becomes amorous. A long line of two-wheelers scurries along the bumpy road. Women wearing cotton saris, sit under temporary tarpaulin sheets selling vegetables - the greeny-bittery kind. Now flaked with dust, with names that sometimes sound like foreign languages or Marvel characters. The heat is too much to bear. Women with children walk by, trying to get their kids to school before the gong sounds. Babies cry. Men prance about wearing tucked up lungis and showing their (not so) bare legs. They stand gazing with a glass of cutting chai or a smoke. A Russian man sits sipping on a hot cup of Irani chai, taking in the surroundings very differently from the gazing men. Construction workers pile reddish-brown bricks and plaster them with grey cement. A manure-like smell wafts in the air from the cow dung. The chortle from the women selling the greens intermingles with the sound of onions being fried in the Chinese fast food shop. The wafting smell of garlic spirals into the cerulean hues of the sky. At the nearby station, the board at the entrance, "Sabari Express delayed by 3 hours...We regret the inconvenience caused."
    ©insearchoftheseaandthesoul