Sister to call my own

She was not what I was expecting. From our phone conversations, I imagined an older woman, plump, with tired, black circles under her eyes. But P, she was young, slender. She wore an orange kurta over blue jeans. She didn’t look the part of mother to two teenagers. A boy stood a few steps back of her, immersed in the shadows of the alley, looking at us curiously. His eyes were a striking brown-green, cat eyes they call it. That must be the son, I thought. He edged away as he caught my eyes on him. She led us deeper into the alley. This was the first time I was moving into a place without actually seeing it beforehand. With bated breath, we lugged my luggage down a small slope to their home.

It was a modest one, one storey. There was a small parlour, two bedrooms (one of them had a bathroom attached), a dining room and a kitchen. There was a bathroom in the back, outside, but it didn’t work. If I chose the room with the bathroom, I wouldn’t be able to lock the door in the night since it was a common one. So I chose the other room. There’s one other girl, she told us. I didn’t mind honestly. After rooming with an average of four to five roommates for the past five years, one girl wasn’t going to be a problem. Or so I thought.

She turned out to be a huge problem though, and not in the conventional way. She didn’t have any weird, annoying habits. She didn’t go through my things. She didn’t mess up the room. Yet after just one night, I became emotionally invested her. I called her my sister. And not in the superficial way we call our seniors, store keepers or people you just meet. I actually meant it when I called her chechi.

“My father died a few weeks ago.” She told me quietly once we were alone.

I didn’t know what to say. My mouth was dry. Back home, I’d offer the common condolence, “I’m sorry.” 

Here, I couldn’t say that. It felt wrong.

I guess I didn’t need to say anything because she continued. She told me how her mother died from cancer three months before her father’s passing. How she became an orphan in less than a year. How she was engaged but her wedding kept getting delayed because of the disease and subsequent deaths. She explained how she racked up a hefty debt for cancer treatments. How this was the first time she was staying away from home. It was heart breaking to listen...

I learned a lot that night. I finally understood my mom’s feelings. Why she kept bringing up marriage lately. Her pestering was because she was afraid. She was afraid if something unexpected like this happened, I, an only child, wouldn’t have anybody to call my own. It was a scary thought.

Later on, chechi would tell me, “It’s as if someone sent you to me that night.”

Apparently, her sister had stayed with her for two weeks to ease her into this home-away-from-home. However, her sister had to go back home the previous night. As chechi wondered what she would do all by herself in this lonely room, I came.

And we became close, quickly. She introduced me to Thiruvanthapuram. I, in turn, listened to all her amazing memories of her childhood, her parents, her siblings... I understood it was her release, but she was a brilliant story teller. I could get lost in her stories.

Our sudden closeness seemed to irritate our landlady for some reason. And she took it out on chechi.

P started saying insensitive things like “death is natural” and how we should come to terms with it. I saw how it was affecting chechi. When chechi walked away distraught, P scoffed, “she needs to accept this.”

I was like, “death is natural, but when you have two parents die recently, you don’t want to consider the mechanics of it, you just want to mourn.”

P didn’t appreciate my support of chechi. I feel as if that only increased the animosity.

P continued to do and say things that would hurt chechi. I was struggling to understand why though. P’s situation couldn’t be called similar, but it was traumatic just the same: an abusive husband who split when he saw a younger woman. You would think she would be more sympathetic to chechi’s suffering... When I discussed this with my friend J, she told me about this article she read in Vanitha, a Malayalam lifestyle magazine. It was entitled “Why are Women so Cruel?” Although I couldn’t read it, she gave me the gist.

With P’s cruelty and a neighbour who echoed Shobana from Manichithrathazhu, it got to a point where chechi couldn’t take it anymore. She left.

P was embarrassed. She thought chechi may have talked bad about her to me. So she talked bad about chechi. She didn’t realize that she was digging her own hole. Once she said, “Hum. She didn’t like my food. If she liked her mom’s food so much, she should’ve gone with her.” I realized I couldn’t stay in this environment anymore.  I also left, following chechi to another accommodation.

It’s crazy how bonds form, isn’t it? Sometimes it takes years, and sometimes it just takes a few sentences. I came to this city not knowing anybody save a few internet friends. And now, I have an older sister to call my own.  

The Keeper of the Smasana

The stench of death enveloped us even before we entered through the gate. It was strong, intruding. It made me want to vomit. Unable to control the urge, I began to breathe through my mouth. I wondered how she managed the job for the past three years. 

Her face reflected her struggle, her determination...

She was certainly an anomaly in the field: a woman, a Christian. When the last keeper fell ill, she took up the work that no one was willing to do and with no prior experience. She did it to support her family. Her husband left years ago and she singlehandedly raised her two daughters, educated them and now, married them. Yet in Malayalee society, a strong independent woman always becomes subject to talk. We saw this firsthand. 

As I started setting up the camera outside the gates to take the establishing shots, one of the men in the neighborhood approached our reporter. I signaled her to ask him to appear on camera. She shook her head smiling. He only had good things to say of course. It reminded me of the olden days when people would hover by the road or boat jetty to disrupt a possible marriage alliance by speaking ill of the prospective bride or groom. 

His claims which he would not say in front of the camera:

She is a horrible woman who drove her husband off.

She is making a lot of money.

She only uses only half of the wood required to burn the bodies. The bodies don’t burn properly and hence the horrible smell. 

What we saw and learned:

She is not given a salary from the corporation or any retirement benefits. 

She makes 1, 500 rupees for each body which turns up.

Out of which, 400 rupees goes to the corporation. It used to be 500 but she told them she was having difficulty running the place and they benevolently reduced 100 rupees. 

The rest of the money goes to buying wood (a lot is needed) and managing the building and land. 

What little is left over, she takes. 

She once requested the corporation to increase the rate for a body, but they dismissed it saying, “We cannot do that. This is a social service.” 

For religious and cultural reasons, families of the deceased are supposed to give dakshina to the keeper. However, the families who come give very little because they think she is getting paid heavily for this job.

The wiring of the place is ancient. There are a lot of loose connections and circuits tend to burst. Electricians are often afraid to come into the Smasana and she has to beg them. Majority of the time there is no light because of this. The light bulbs are difficult to replace because they are a different variety and can only be bought from somewhere in the city. They are also very expensive. She usually pays for it herself since the money does not add up. 

A body takes around 6 hours to burn and longer if the body has been induced with medicine for a long time. She will not take a body in the evening because of this. There is a lack of light because of the electrical problems, not to mention, she would be waiting alone. Yet people in the corporation who turn a deaf ear to her complaints and suggestions call her nonstop when there is a family important to them. They appease her saying, “do this and we’ll fix the wiring tomorrow itself.” She tells us that tomorrow has turned into three months now. 

For the past few years, when this job is up for grabs, no one raises their hand. No one wants to do it. 

Isn’t it sad that the only person who is willing to do the job is not given the support or appreciation she deserves?  

Gods of the East

Question: Why is it that Hindu scriptures are referred to as mythology and Gods as mythological while Christianity is a religion and the Bible is a holy book? I seen this referral in a lot in textbooks and documentaries... I can understand if no one practices the religion anymore like Greek mythology (er, at least I think they don't), but Hinduism (a way of life and a religion) is practiced by a wide range of people...

I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

After a surviving a harsh downpour, we stumble upon a beautiful walkway like bridge encroached by moss, mud and dead leaves. It is above roads, houses, railway tracks, and a vast body of water. We walked smartly at first, eager to find where it leads... yet it went on and on and we never did reach the end. 

A peek back into time...

This was an attempt to capture village life back in the day. Kattadi basically means a windmill. Here, it is a toy made out of palm leaves.

"Kochi pazhaya Kochi alla"

"Kochi pazhaya Kochi alla"  which basically translates to Kochi is not the same/old Kochi" 

It is a dialogue immortalized by the film Big B and one which encompasses so much meaning. 

From hosting India's first biennale to opening India's biggest shopping mall [Lulu], Kochi has changed a lot. And with the coming of the metro rail, it will soon be hailed a metro city, not that it hasn't already. 

When my colleague and I set out to find a old time barber shop in the city, we weren't sure if we would succeed. Check out our journey here: The Soon to be Extinct Barber Shop We were excited when we found one, a century old one at that, but our happiness quickly evaporated when we realized we were witness to an extinction of a barber shop in real time.

A friend and junior of ours took some awesome photos of the cool, century old barber shop which we found near South railway.

Do check it out before it becomes rubble.

Flashback

When I see rush hour traffic here in the evening, I think to myself this is nothing compared to India. The screeching, the honking, customers haggling with roadside vendors, the random cows and goats in the roads- compared to India, here, it is very quiet. However, some evenings, when traffic is dreadfully slow, I find myself drifting back to my early childhood years in India.

New Delhi, India. Population: a lot. Seriously, we have a population crisis back there. If you think New York is crowded, you obviously haven't been to New Delhi. There, I lived with my Mummy, Pappa, and Ammachey (grandmother in Malayalam) in a small rented house in the center of the city. Our house was by one of the main roads, and because of this it was often loud and dusty. I suspect my mother had to clean the interior at least twice a day. In the afternoons, the noise level especially increased with people trying to get home for lunch and children in the nearby schools having playtime. The only thing which separated us from the busy intersection was a thin wall, usually plastered with posters of the latest film releases in theaters. 

One of the more vivid memories I have living there is a day I got into huge trouble. As in most evenings, my Pappa had left for work, and my Mummy had just come home from it. They had scheduled their shifts so that one of them was with me and my Ammachey at all times. My parents feel strongly about spending quality time with family. Even to this day, it is like that and those values have rubbed off on me. 

That particular evening, I was riding my tricycle in the little space we had while my Mummy cooked dinner. Ammachey, who was watching me from the porch, called me back in, saying dinner was almost ready. Of course, my three and a half year old self could care less about what was for dinner. I just wanted to have some fun. Besides, Ammachey always cut my tricycle riding short. I wasn't having it this time.

It was at that moment my little eyes spotted a man with red balloons near the school gates on the other side of the intersection. I couldn't possible tell you what was going through my mind at that moment because honestly I don't remember much myself. All I know is I really wanted a balloon. It was like life or death. 

Luckily for me, someone had left the gate open. I rode my tricycle as hard as I could in efforts to get to balloon man. By the time I reached the gate, Ammachey realized I meant business. Seeing as she couldn't run after me because of her frail body, she called for my Mummy, who rushed out of the kitchen.

As my Mummy ran after me, I was no longer interested in the balloon man; rather I was in the thrill of the chase. It was fun! I was so near to the road that I could see all the auto rickshaws, taxis, and bicycles (even bigger than mine) waiting for the traffic officer to let them pass. Thankfully, before I reached the actual street, my mom caught me like a lioness protecting her cub.

That evening, I almost gave my Mummy a heart attack. She still reminds me of that incident to this day, always exaggerating the story....

Mothers. :P

NOTE: This is a flashback in two senses. One this is a memory of my early childhood in India.. Two, I expanded on the memory and wrote it for my Women Writer's class in 12th standard. 

A Junior Artist's Curse

I watch from the sidelines as you and the others discuss the script.

You throw your head back and laugh at some stupid joke told by the assistant director. Everyone watches in awe. You are beautiful, charming, and at the top of your game.  You have everyone bewitched.

It didn’t matter that I was an award winning artist with years of experience to my credit. All it took was one noncommittal statement from you and I was blacklisted in the industry.

Suddenly, I became just a junior artist.

It’s fine. Really. I mean, I’ve seen many like you before, experienced many like you, your arrogance.

The thing is, I know how the ending is going to be.

You won’t last long in my industry, sweetheart.

I’ll give you 5 years tops, two state awards, a debut in Bollywood which does absolutely nothing for your career and a scandal involving a none too innocent photo shoot with an international photographer.

After that, it’ll be over for you.

Following a whirlwind of media coverage, you will run away from the industry you loved, the industry that loved you, craving an escape. You will quickly find yourself married to a businessman, pregnant, fat, with sagging breasts and black circles around your eyes…

Your husband will quickly become tired of you. The media will refer to you as the yesteryear actress. New girls will strut in front of the camera with their size zero figures and scandalous item numbers and you will remember your golden days. Lakhs will be spent on your physique, a crore on your face. The kids will grow to despise you.  And then, you will come back and beg for a role, any role, with anyone.

Gone is your selectiveness. Gone is your favoritism. Gone is your arrogance.

You will swallow your pride as you sign on for films in which you will play

my sister

my lover

my wife

and if you last, perhaps even, my mother.

That’s how it is in my industry.

So have your fun now, sweetheart… 

Enjoy it while it lasts.