Sounds of life

Nursery rhymes taught us the various sounds of everyday life to familiarize ourselves with - like the  rooster’s - cock a doodle do ( never heard a cock coo this way till date though), the chikku bukku of the train, the tip tip of the rain on the roof, the buzz of the crickets that is the sound of an otherwise eerie  night, the rustle of dry leaves on a windy day and many others.

 Later years, I was a big fan of the song Poopookum osai . The song is about the sounds we don’t ear but would love to and the sounds that are true music to our years. Grandfather’s snores,  the striking of coins in a carom board, the sound qunik quink from the shoe I wore while learning to walk as a toddler, the cling of coins in my piggy bank, the honk of my school bus, the cling of the class bell, the pomp pomp of the pushcart bakery  man, the unique sound of daddy’s scotter, the promo of DD national TV’s news programme, early morning bells from the neighbourhood temple, whipping sound of eggs for the Sunday morning omelet… the list is endless and will remain etched in my memory forever.

There are some sounds, actually recent ones that stir me to the core these days. The snooze of the morning alarms that hits really hard on the head every day, remainder that I have a long way to go in life, of the dreams and struggles ahead.

 Then comes, the sound of the police siren. A sound that reminds me of the haunting night during the Chennai floods in 2015, with the ground floor of the building completely flooded and 70 of us packed in the first floor of the hostel, with no power, no communication with the rest of the world, and no food, a water water everywhere not a drop to drink situation, the only sound to break the silence of the night was the police siren at a distance sounding at regular intervals. It told us that there was life and road somewhere close by. Even a year later, I wake up with sweat when I hear this sound from a regular night patrolling vehicle.

I thought, I would be the last person to be affected by demonetization. Life had other plans, when even after 10 days, most ATM ran dry when I would have progressed to an arm’s length proximity to it after waiting rather patiently in an hour and half long queue. The sound of ATM dispensing cash is lately the sound of relief to me, sometimes more calming than Ilayaraja’s songs after a long day at work and a long hour at the queue.

 I am waiting for the more unforgettable sounds life has in store for me. 

Honey, lets discuss money.

The wallet was full of 500 and 1000 rupee currency, swiped fresh out of the ATM to pay the rent. Breaking news of a speech is all it took to make the wallet feel so light and the heart so heavy. After an hour of brainstorming with self and confusion, all the hideouts are checked. Pant pockets, old wallets, underneath newspaper spread on shelves, every zipped compartment in all the bags are all thoroughly checked and I end up amused to find a couple of more invalid currency. The only consolation was the pouch full of 5 and 10 rupee coins which was a secret piggy bank.

For once in life I felt truly happy like a child for possessing 324 rupees in all. I felt richer and at peace at the end of the day and treated myself a lime soda for not having spent a penny out of it the whole of next day. Sometimes, only sometimes, does the idea of not having shopped inspite of having walked the entire stretch of a busy shopping street gives someone happiness. I felt it then.

The next day at the bank was a live drama. Watching people jumping queues, bunking offices and fighting for the exchange to get a few valuable currency was a scenario that will be remain etched in my memory for ever. Surprised husbands, shocked over the savings of their wives which was many times the money they gave them to run the household every month. Women who had never been involved in the financial matters of the family were now showstoppers who stunned their husbands with their exceptional savings done over years and shared the unusual hideouts now that they could no longer keep them anywhere except in their bank accounts. Kudoos to the women , who braved all odds in running the family still didn’t forget to save a little bit of the little money she was given.

The ATM pin is finally shared with the wife, a mother is taught to swipe at the super market, a sister is taught the nuances of online shopping. I don’t know if black will become white or true revelations will happen. But sure did it hit a lot of men that women are better at finances than them. A women who had never spent of couple of hundreds at once for herself over all lifetime, has saved, in the meager money given to her over the years enough to keep her going for a life time. This drive has left a lot of men gaping at the women of their household who micro managed all the expenses, yet saved. Even when she earns, she doesn’t get the financial independence she deserves. Break the taboo, women know to earn, spend, invest and save.

 This drive should teach us to respect all the women in our family who cared, saved and braved. Atleast now, involve her, discuss and share with her, your finances. She may not always hold a super specialty masters degree in economics like you, her left brain may be genetically more active yours, she may not always comment on shares market crashes, may not read the economics times with her morning coffee, yes, but without her, your money has no meaning. Period.

(Yeah, she loves surprises. As long as it has nothing to do with your finance management plans.)

Let me be the walls of your house...

Deep inside you love the world,

But strangely, you act cold.

What’s with this loneliness?

Nah, doesn’t make me love you less.

I 'm not asking for much

Just some room with some kitsch.

Let me be the walls of your house

Will give you room and the much needed space

I want to listen to the conversations in your mind

Walls have ears, haven’t you heard?

I want to see you, day and night

Walls are insomniac too, right?

I want to throw in some light

Walls hold windows tall and straight.

I want keep your secrets safe

Walls are solid even when you chafe

I want to cherish your memories, always.

Portraits, photographs, walls have their ways.

I want to see you smile, laugh and cry

Walls hold you when low and high.

I want to stand with you against all odds

Alas, walls can’t shut out your thoughts.

You choose to stay away

Afraid of the dreams at the bay.

You choose to stay stuck

Unsure of beginners luck

Make room for me,

Set the uncertainty free.

Let me be the walls of your house.

Will call it home and take vows. 

A FOR ART

Life begins with the typical A for Apple (for some it is the apple till the very end), and after some roti, kapada and makkan on the way, not necessarily in that order, we all crave for art. Art is happiness, peace, the universal language understood across boundaries.

With arts, it is always an affair of frequent break ups, hot and sour. Sometimes with colour, sometimes in black and white, sometimes a portrait, sometimes an abstract, sometimes its pencils, sometimes is with pens, sometimes on paper, sometimes on wall, sometimes on the cover, sometimes on last page, sometimes with brush, sometimes with fingers, sometimes its typography, sometimes its illustration, sometimes its scenic, sometimes its graphic, sometimes on canvas, sometimes on walls, sometimes on clay, it all began as child’s play.

Not all of us are inspired by Da Vinci or Ravi Varma, Frieda Kahlo or Antonio Gaudi, M F Husain or Michelangelo, but in the mundane daily thing called life, for it still has codes to be cracked and rules to be crossed. The sketches in the pre historic man’s cave say it all. It speaks of history, life and dreams. Every piece has a told untold. Be it a child’s scribble or an artist‘s doodle. All of us are fascinated by stories and art is the best medium of expression which we indulge in, knowingly or unknowingly.

கலை  சொலஂலி  தாரீரோ,  கதை  சொலஂலி  தாரீரோ.

Both the art and the artist are mysterious things often with layers of thoughts and stories entwined within. Also both an artist and his art, is immortal, as rightly said- Fall in love with an artist, you will never die. They light your heart or break your heart. As human and artists we take our subjects as nature, fellow human beings, future, the unknown, relationships and feelings. We express things had have happened to us and more often things we wish happened. Art is the freedom we seldom express. The more of art we create, the more we feel liberated on one side and the more we reach to explore the unknown.

When we create art, we leave a piece of us in it and that makes it close to heart and sometimes a masterpiece. It is something so much ours.  Sometimes we find happiness when we can totally relate to someone’s piece of art and understand the story behind it.

Good art inspires, good design motivates.  With one half of us wanting to have what the rest of the world has, the other half of us craves for thing customized, personalized. We go in search of handmade, original and artistically delivered products. More of the art vs artist’s revolutions and forums for people to exhibit their individual skills need to be made. With millions of artworks dying and scores of artists finding it difficult to make living, it is the right time we start loving arts again and give artists what they deserve the most- Respect.  We should give more space for freedom of expression and understand the importance of being an artist as a career option.

So let us all stop being closet artists and proudly display our piece of works (and also others). Let’s not stop and stare at them just in galleries and studios.  Let them adorn the walls of our rooms, the clothes we wear, the food we eat and the roads we travel. Paint on the fingers is more beautiful than manicured and painted fingers.   Let’s break stereotypes and relearn our alphabets. This time it is – A FOR ART.

It's me.

I am the creator of my destiny,

And it boils down to me.

The blame on the society is a blatant lie,

Lack of time, a dumb try.

Friends and family, a false cry,

It is inside me I need to pry.

The lines on my palm are no road maps;

They don’t show the bridges for the gaps.

The time of my birth is no flowchart;

to predict my dreams and thoughts exact.

It’s never too late,

to make peace with fate.

My life is no blame game

And being me is no shame.

I am the creator of my destiny,

And it boils down to me.

Walks of life - 1

Walking is like breathing to me, more like a lifestyle and sometimes a therapy. I have the best memories of my life in its various walks. It is damn nostalgic as I recall some of them. Some walks are breathtaking and I know it that very moment, while some are just walks for a while and then they become the best experience ever had.

The walk to the office. I should shout out this is the best decision ever made by me, ever. Though it is not a very walk able distance, this daily walk to the office spanning over thirty minutes clears the mind and makes me office ready. It is actually a tough walk meandering the morning Chennai traffic, loaded with a backpack, a market road to pass and two signals to cross. But as I race past, I notice the same things, mundane things and new things every day and start my day.

The strange lady with umbrella who smiles at me without fail every day, the traffic police who holds the honking traffic till the old man with a loaded tri cycle crosses the road long past the signal turns red, the school girl who walks the blind man to the bus stop, the crowd at the roadside teashop draining down fresh brews of tea, the “avatar” kid who holds his grandmother’s hand tight as he nears the school, oh yeah I nicknamed him that way as he is smeared with talcum powder, holy dots and carries a lost look, the” pogai podara bhai” who walks ahead of me and then suddenly disappears into the crowd leaving behind a waft of smoky sambrani smell, the bougainvillea tree that lays a purple carpet to walk on and forget all blues, the aircraft that hover over the head as it makes to the airport reminds me of the travel life makes you make, the aroma of baking bread around the radius of the bakery makes me hungry,  the lazy street dogs that stretch yet refuse to move and make way for pedestrians, the cool girl who drives past in a bullet and finally the thatha at the market who unloads the vegetable sacks and his kickass attitude to (y)earn for a living.

So much in so little time, from watching people to arching the neck to catch the flight on the sky, all en-route the walk to office. Didn’t someone rightly say that the journey is more important than the destination?

Valai oosai..but why?

Something that makes all of us pause and ponder and sometimes wonder is our inner voice. At times so loud that the whole world hears out, in the form of art, literature, movie, music etc, sometimes it’s so gentle and let out as a tear and most times unheard off or rather suppressed.

I keep thinking why do I write this blog and what made be call it valai oosai. Many I times it’s just a sudden outburst of thoughts that are so difficult to let go. They haunt me unless I express them and pour my heart out. Sometimes it’s more meaningful and emotional than my many real loud words and heated arguments.

It’s my on the go legal adviser, all times tricking my brain. It’s the no Wi-Fi Google that makes understand  any understandable life situations. The gentle push which spreads my wings and the gentle pull that keeps me grounded. The inner voice, that all of hear atleast at point of time in life (For me at most times) is so magical that it helps us forgive ourselves, discover ourselves and make choice and helps us make peace with ourselves. This constant running commentary helps make decisions and vent out. What would life be without this inner voice and Valai without valai oosai.  The only match for my extravagant communication skill is my inner voice.

The most underrated psychotherapist that keeps the brain going and the heart ticking and life kicking awesome is this good old damn inner voice. An ode to my intuitions, that see my dreams even when I am awake, like real wide awake, blank and clueless.