From & To Sathish #6 - Page 33

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uqm3VuGVies

OMG! 2003. Twenty years ago and I still look like a fish out of water.

Avan, Aval Adhu 515

A house is made with walls and beams; a home is built with love and dreams. Ralph Waldo Emerson

Home-- the place where you live or where you feel that you belong.

Home is a safe haven and a comfort zone. A place to live with our families and pets and enjoy with friends. A place to build memories as well as a way to build future wealth. A place where we can truly just be ourselves.

In the distant future, when mankind has found ways to travel faster through space there might come a time when he might encounter an alien life. Hopefully, it will be a peaceful encounter between life from this solar system and that from another part of the universe.

I wish I could be present when this happened and when a conversation began between both species. I wonder what I will have to say or how I will explain when the Alien life to whom I am an alien myself asks me to describe my home. I am sure a huge happy smile will blink into existence like a new star on my face and then I will gulp, swallow air and blink my eyes as I search for words to describe Home.

There are several theories about the origin of Kolkata, erstwhile Calcutta in English, the name of the capital of the eastern Indian state of West Bengal.

There is a lot of discussion on how the city got its name. There are different views on the issue. The most popular and likely one is that the city got its name from its connection to the Hindu goddess Adyashakti paramba Kali with the original name being either Kalikshetra (in Sanskrit), meaning the place of Adyashakti Kāli, or Kalikkhetrô (the Bengali pronunciation of Kalikshetra), meaning "area of Goddess Kali", with Kolikata being thought to be a variation of Kalikkhetrô. This theory is the most possible one as in the rural Bengali pronunciation the 'kh' consonant is replaced by 'k' and the 'tro' joined consonant is replaced by 'to', resulting in Kalikhetrô being Kaliketô which is very close to Kolikata. Other more or less plausible theories abound, like:

The name derived from the location of the original settlement beside a khal (which means canal in English) According to a folk etymology, Britishers, when they visited the city, saw the goddess with a skull garland. This reminded them of the place Golgotha, which later became Kolkotha.

The name may have been derived from the Bengali term kilkila ("flat area")

According to another theory, the area specialised in the production of quicklime or koli chun and coir or kata; hence, it was called Kolikata.

In the garden of her ancestral home in North Kolkotta, Madhurima sat by herself under the Gulmohar tree. If a passerby happened to get a glimpse of her sitting all by herself on the wooden bench, their thoughts would have been, ' Sad looking lady or just a mad one for who else would sit in the dark and that too at 3.30 am? Maybe she is lost, lonely and without a home.

Madhu was not lost, not lonely and definitely not mad. Maybe she felt a little sad as memories of the past few days and the past 25 years came and went and returned again and there was nothing she could do to turn them away.

Memories are like waves of the seas and oceans. Our minds and souls are the shores that they crash on releasing their lamentations. Like the waves that come in all sizes, memories too come and go as they please. Memories are good for they are the only means to time travel.

But she was home and in her own private world that could be best described in one word. " Dada " for that is how she had called her late grandfather and that is how everyone she knew addressed him.

Placing her right hand on the empty part of the small wooden bench, she reminisced about the memories that existed in her head and all around her in their ancestral home.

' Dada, I am back home. I know it has been a few months since my last visit here. Sorry, work has been hectic. But I am here now, dada. I am here and I think I will stay here for a few days or maybe a few weeks even.

Then, unable to hold back her thoughts, her tears of joy and sorrow, she began to cry softly, ' Dada, I got married. Again. I went back to save him and in a way to save myself. But, I am cursed, for things went bad and once again, a life was lost.'

Her hot, sad and heavy tears formed a small pool on the bench and stained its ancient teak that had arrived from Burma many centuries ago. They pooled and shimmered like gold and silver under the full moon's light and refused to congeal like wax. Like Blood.

She caressed the wooden bench with her hand and whispered to ghosts of the past and to ghosts of the present, ' Dada, Ravi married me and he tied that Kali Pendant around my neck. Thank you dada. Thank you for reaching out to me and watching over me.

But, Dada, I gave it away. I am sorry. Please forgive me for she, poor Meena deserved that more than me for I know now that she loved Ravi as much as I did or maybe even more than me. That is why she came to save him and died.'

Madhu cried for Meenakshi and cried for Ravi and their fates and their sad and broken lives.

Then she felt someone touch her head softly and lovingly and looked up and around and watched as the Gulmohar tree rained crimson red flowers on her and all around her.

Madhu cried, smiled and tilting her face to the heavens offered herself and the Gulmohar obliged and rained more flowers on her.

Red is sacred to Bengalis and that is why their bridal sarees are in red or bordered in Red. The colour crimson and red is precious and sacred to all Bengalis and that is why they worship Goddess Durga in Red.

In a soft bed of red Gulmohar flowers, Madhu sat, drowning in memories of love, loss and hope.

The days are falling leaves. The days join together as months and pass as seasons. With seasons, leaves change colours from green to yellow and then to brown. They fall to the ground and are broken down and absorbed by their mother's roots and by the real mother, Earth who returns them chemicals in a new and different form.

Life falls to the ground. But, Earth never fails and returns all that which fell down and all that which floated up as ash and dust back to the recycling machine called existence and creation.

I grew up in Coimbatore dt..Regardless of the season (did we really have a season ?), our dinner time was at 7.30 PM and bed time was no later than 9.30 pm.

Eating out at a restaurant was a huge deal, a rarity actually, that only happened when it was a birthday or a very special occasion to celebrate.

There was no such thing as fast food on every other day. Having a bottle of soft drinks and an ice-cream from the local shop was a real treat reserved for special occasions. Pass your final exams and you might have gotten a treat or new pair of Bata chappals. We waited for Christmas /Ramzan/Deepavali or Birthday and Pongal for a new set of dress. Hung around at the Tailor shop on the eve of Deepavali to collect the newly stitched dress.

You took your school clothes off as soon as you got home and put on your ‘home’ clothes. There was no taking or picking you up in the car or school bus. You either rode on public transport, or just walked home. You got home did your chores and homework before dinner.

Not everyone had a home phone and much later, all private conversation were at neighbour house. We used to get telephone calls at our neighbors house. If our home had a telephone, we had to be the messenger to many neighbors as when they got a call.

We didn’t have Apple TV, AmazonPrime or Netflix. Only few houses had TV, we used to flock them. We had only Doordarshan to watch, Oliyum Oliiyum on Friday, Movie on Sunday for which we waited all week. We need to constantly meddle with the antenna to get Radio Ceylon, Rupavahini reception.

We played Thirudan Police, Football, Cricket, Iceboy (actually it was “I spy”) Goli, Kaathaadi, Pambaram , Gilli and any other game we could come up with... At home, we stuck to Dhaayam , Paramapadam, Aadupuli Aattam and Trade (Monopoly). Whoever was the Banker at Trade game had underhanded dealings with selected few players.

Staying home was a PUNISHMENT and the we hardly complained about getting bored as we always had something to do outside. Half the time folks at our home could identify us with our voice as we became tanned, dirty and sweaty walking / playing or roaming in hot sun. Home was only to shower, eat & sleep. We always walked or by cycled up to few KMs, never took a rickshaw or a bus.

Life was good without insta, facebook, twitter.

Followers were the friends standing behind you.

We played music via tape recorder (in few houses only) but mostly with radio / transistor sitting around it. A walkman which came later during college days was a luxury even for the rich.

We were sent to ‘Nadar or Annachi Kadai’ for groceries. Chiclets, then mittai, kamarcut etc was a commission / treat for our trip to the shop. They all used to cost few paises.

We ate what Amma made and packed in our lunch box. Bottled water was non existent. We drank from the school water tap or from the earthen pot.

We called our friends by shouting their names from standing outside their house on the the street. We were welcome to all friends house uninvited and food / snacks was served irrespective whether anything was left for friend’s mother.

We weren't AFRAID OF ANYTHING. We played until dark... sunset / darkness was our alarm to return home. You could never enter home without washing your legs & hands first.

If someone had a fight, that's what it was and we were friends again a day later if not SOONER.

We were careful with what we said around our elders because ALL of our aunts, uncles, grandpas, grandmas, our parents friends and neighbors were all extensions of our PARENTS and you didn't want them telling your parents you’d misbehaved!

We respected our Elders, Police, Firemen, Teachers, Doctors and Nurses or anyone with power. We never questioned or answered back... ever!!!

We were made to stand on the bench at school for not doing homework, no hair cut, being late to class or being naughty. Our teachers freely spanked us when we deserved it and our parents did not complain about it.

We did not know what luxury was. Our simple lives were so good.

Those were the good old days. All kids growing in Metros today will never know how it feels to be a real kid 😁. I loved my childhood and all the friends I hung around with. 💖. Really miss those days. Simple living, no anxiety, no worries about tomorrow.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YsWqIYIxfPk

Avan, Aval Adhu 516

The heart may not have the same level of education as the mind, but it often has a deeper understanding of what truly matters.

He remembered the first time his eyes had seen her. He remembered it clearly for it had been a powerful experience. His eyes saw her and then his soul and heart saw her. His feet refused to walk away from her and stuck to the ground like ships' anchors and stilled him.

Ravi Kumar had instinctively placed his hand on his heart in an effort to calm it down. Then he heard her speak and heard her name and felt her in his heart. The beating, thumping and blood-pumping machine that lay inside his chest slowed down and began to beat in a different way.

Ravi stood gazing at her with his hand on his new heart that seemed to beat out in Morse code, " She is the one. You and she were meant to be. Your heart and her heart have been tuned to a certain frequency that is unique and that can be felt only by you both and by your creator".

Ravi's lips which had been buds had bloomed in a huge smile that radiated happiness and peace and he said her name and said it again and again.

' Madhu, Madhu ' and he knew he was home. He knew they were meant to be and that God had created them both at the same time with a love that was meant just for them both and a bond that he had created exclusively for them alone.

Love gives you wings to fly. It gives you a high that makes you bolder, stronger, and stranger. Love makes everything worthwhile, bearable and tolerable. Love tells you that it is worth dying for and tells you that it is worth living for.

Eighty years of an average human life is made up of 956 months, 4174.5 weeks, 29220 days, 701280 hours. It is made up of so many choices. But the most important choice is that of love. To love or not to love. To love or hate and through that, live or die and die every day living a lie.

Prem, Madhu's late husband had started his company and for a lack of a better name and also under pressure from his best friend, Gupta had innocuously registered it as Premji Associates. There was nothing innocuous about that company that quietly flew under the radar even though it belonged to the rare billion-dollar club. Twice and nearly thrice over and the company's turnover was growing by leaps and bounds with every passing year.

The company that had its headquarters in Mumbai now had spread and had branches all over North India and in Bengaluru and Hyderabad. Even though questions had been raised about why they were not present in Chennai, it had been lulled into silence.

There were some secrets that were known only to Madhu and her trusted Confidante Mr. Guptaji.

Madhu had risen with the sun and after having been bathed in the rain of the Gulmohar flowers, had set aside her personal matters and had gone about visiting her Kolkota branch and meeting her senior staff members.

The day passed slowly, sadly and heavily but passed surely for time does not wait for anyone.

It was nearly 9.00 pm when she returned to her ancestral home that should have been rightfully called a small palace. She had bathed and after changing into a simple cotton kurta pyjama set, now returned to sit and connect with the spirits of her Dada and parents.

When in peace and in tranquillity, time passed by very quickly and it was nearly 11.00 pm when Bolenath came to her and sent ripples in the lake of her silence and disturbed her.

Madhu looked at him with eyes that said, ' It better be important and it better not be about dinner'.

Bolenath who had been working for Madhu and who was in charge of maintaining the ancestral property smiled and said, ' Ma'am, it is important for I know better than to disturb your peace and privacy'.

' All right. What is it, then, Boleji?'

' Ma'am, a person has come calling and insists on seeing you'.

Madhurima sighing irritatedly asked, ' Did he say his name and state his purpose?'

' No, ma'am. All he did was request me to tell you his name.

Madhu looked at him, slowly stood up, and asked, ' What is his name?'

Bolenath hesitated and unable to control his smile, smiled and said, ' A strange name ma'am'.

' Strange. Why do you say that, boleji?'

' Because who would call themselves by the name Jaanu?'

Madhu stared at him wildly and whispered, ' Jaanu? Jaanu ' and then she ran towards the entrance and ran through her home to her real home that had come to take her in and to make a new home out of two hearts.

Home is where the heart is and where love is.

The boy who went into the darkness went searching for love, a heart to belong to and a home to live in and he came back with light and a new heart which held a new home called love.

I am home through my thoughts and stories. Come, take my hand and let me give you a tour of my home and my heart.

I am Avan. I am Aval. I am Adhu and my real name is love.

This then is the story and the purpose of life and creation.

Interesting read for English language lovers. Brilliant ‼️

Once Ishwarchandra Vidyasagar, a Bengali poet and scholar, jokingly asked Michael Madhusudhan Dutt, an Anglophile poet of great repute: "As you are a master of the English language, can you make a sentence without using a single 'e'?" Dutt, the master of English language wrote this:

"I doubt if I can. It's a major part of many words. Omitting it is as hard as making muffins without flour. It's as hard as spitting without saliva, napping without a pillow, driving a train without tracks, sailing to Russia without a boat, washing your hands without soap. And, anyway, what would I gain? An award? A cash bonus? Bragging rights? Why should I strain my brain? It's just not worth it."

👏👏👏👏👍👍🌺

https://youtu.be/uPe_CyihyxU?si=jNcYgzozUZghNftO

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wi_dQEtX4AQ

Book, books, stories and my story

“A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who never reads lives only one.― George R.R. Martin, A Dance with Dragons

I will not flog you with foggy memories of how I began cheating on the world and the entity who in its various avatars forced me into this cheating business. The entity who forced me to lie, hide and run is called Book and this creation also masquerades as a novel, storybook, comic, magazine and even circulars.

I close my eyes and walk through the corridor of memories and I do that by pushing away curtains that hang over passages of my life and the past. Sadly, age does rust and add dust to memories and thoughts and to counter this Malignancy that will rapidly advance as I advance further into my lifespan.

I have segregated some of the most important parts of my life and have copied and pasted them and stored them in that part of my brain that I have labelled " Sacred " and moving the curtain that hangs and hides the entrails of that place, I see myself once again.

I see that five or six-year-old Sati staring at books in wonder and unlike that ancient Pandora who had been strictly told not to open the box, but did and suffered the consequences, nobody had told me anything and I opened the book and suffered. The consequences of opening a book have endured to now and most of them are good—some bad.

But coming back to cheating on the world while carrying on with the entity called Book, I began that by first forgetting to eat on time and sometimes skipping meals. This cheating extended to not sleeping well, waking up early and then sometimes missing playtime with friends.

A wall for my back, a little shade for my head and solitude were all that was required for me to hunch over the book and run through the pages of the story and run behind the characters that the book's creator had created.

Tom Sawyer was a favourite of mine for like his Becky Thatcher, I had " I.Kala " a mallu girl with two long pigtails to drool and dream on in my 3rd std in my brief two-year stay in Saraswathi Vidyalaya, Kodambakkam. To be more precise, under the Bridge. I mentioned 3rd std for that was the last time I saw her.

Okay, just because you are curious to know about my fledgling love story ( First crush), I was kicked out.

WTF! Satish. Who gets kicked out in the 3rd std. Me, yours faithfully for bringing my uncle's leftover cigarette stubs and smoking them on the school's terrace.

But the best part of 3rd std and my first tryst with love was that the love letter that I had penned for " I.Kala " was found by one of my sisters and well, Black and blue was the song of my bony back and skinny bum topped with a few acorns that lingered on my hard skull.

Sometimes, I reminisce about the various stages of Kutty satish and ask him questions in an effort to learn more about myself.

I am always left with one semblance of an answer: ' Books are the best companions and who remain faithful till the end and till you let them go'.