Give me a weird creature

Give me a weird creature.
A creature that is not stupid for lack of brains, but because he chooses to be stupid.
A creature which has abundance, but chooses to ignore it for something trivial.
A creature with eyes to see, but a blind intellect.
A creature which, though can hear, cannot receive; though can touch, cannot feel.
Give me a creature that can forget the womb it came from, the land it thrived on.
A creature so bright, yet so dark at heart.
Give me a creature, that can kill its own kind.
But let that creature have a heart to know love, yet make it hard for it to recognize.
Give the creature, the mind to care, yet a memory to forget.
Make the creature the best that ever lived, yet the most deserving to die.
Give me a weird creature.


The two kinds of celebrations I never actually understood

celebrations I do not understand copy

The first has to be Birthdays. This is one kind of celebration that goes back to your childhood when you do not have the verbal mastery to debate and prove to your parents that Birthday celebrations look stupid, utterly stupid. My dad was very obsessed with my birthday, and why should he not be – I was born that day. He used to decorate the whole house and invite more people than what the house and our finances could hold.

However I secretly always pondered over the purpose of all that. They all celebrated and sang for me, as if being born a couple of years from then, on that day, was something I was planning for years and finally could accomplish with marvelously flying colors. They greet you as if I myself, had caused my birth. I honestly believe that if they do want to celebrate my birthday – the purpose of which is also unclear as I was not like the guy who theorized space-time continuum or the man who liberated them from some tyrannous clutches – they should congratulate my parents. They did all the stuff, they are the ones who are responsible for me to happen, they are the ones who had sex. I should be made to cut the cake, feed it to them and bow with respect for making me happen. I understand if my parents are glad for getting a child, but the others should totally be like “Congratulations Mr. and Mrs. P, you have made a wonderful kid.”
Even the people who tell me that they celebrate because it is the day I – a wonderful friend, or the guy who helped them sometime, or something else – was born; even they should be thanking my parents. I mean I understand celebrating my birthday, but I think I should not be the one getting the credits here.

On a kind of a similar note, there is this other celebration in which I should be the one getting the credits but I don’t. It is the one, when you achieve something, like passing an examination, getting a job, or becoming a parent. I don’t know how this is celebrated throughout the world but in our place it is celebrated by distributing sweets to neighbors, friends, colleagues and sometimes even acquaintances.
Why? Why am I giving them sweets? I studied hard and I gave the exam to pass it; I being good at my academics got a job after I cracked the interview, I will be the one to have sex, for a baby to come and for me to become a parent. Should they not be giving me sweets, for my efforts? I mean, think about the poor child who in spite of having a very bad financial background, and no proper facilities, earned a great score in his exams. What does he have to do now? Tell his parents they need to shell out more money so that he can go around giving sweets.

People will throw points such as, these are the moments in which you make other people happy by giving them sweets or throwing a party or sometimes both; so that you can share your joy. So that people will pray for more such days to come, which, in turn, is beneficial for you.
Well let me argue on that point.
I think a man will be more happy if there are people, who care about him, knocking on his door, with sweets in their hand, when he achieves something; than he giving it out to others.
People do all this, to widen their circles, and as a bribe for others to keep wanting more such days which in turn will mean progress for them. This is not a conscious attempt to bribe, but there is a subconscious, telepathic bribe exchanged at such events. And you cannot stop doing these, because we don’t live in a perfect society where relations are easily formed without vested interests. And so we continue to feed those imperfections in our favor by such ceremonies.

I know I am being a very harsh critic to something which looks so pleasant, but that does not mean I am going to stop doing it. Let go of all the imperfections such celebrations imply, and I too like to have a reason to celebrate; but to speak out what I feel is more crucial a need for me than having fun.

Good Bye Grandma

I don’t know if it was unexpected. My response when my mom told me that Grandma is no more, was first blank which later turned into shock and finally settled into the realization that inside I knew it was going to happen soon. From there to the next 2 hours everything was planned and arranged really soon. I got a leave for 10 days from my company, dad booked an air ticket for 3 and I set out for Mumbai, from where we were to aboard the flight to Kerela the very next morning.
As our airplane landed Trivandrum, I was unsure of the emotions that I was supposed to have. Dad was blank the whole time. He tried very hard to look composed though occasionally I could see that he was depressed, which was expected and obvious as it was his mother who was no more among the living. Mom was rather relaxed though I knew very well that she had finished her share of tears way before I had reached Mumbai. I was confused, and was thinking hard of what I should feel. Occasionally I would feel blank but I would then resume to my normal mood.
Two of my relatives had come with a car to pick us up. My town – Mavellikara – is a good 4 hours ride from Trivandrum provided we meet no traffic jams. One of the two men was my dad’s brother and the other I guessed was my cousin sister’s husband though I did not get much time to confirm the relations. My assumed cousin sister’s husband drove real fast through the notoriously dangerous roads of Kerela. His turns and cuts were made so comfortably that I almost felt I was playing one of the computer games in the car in which you drive so precariously knowing that you wont be dead for real.
We reached our native house, and I could see a large crowd. I could not help but keep observing dad’s face. I wanted to see for some reason how his expressions were changing. His face was pale, emotionless. As we neared one of the homes of our family where Grandma’s corpse lied covered in ash and and a white blanket, the sounds of cries were getting clearer. The house was filled with deafening cries of ladies, and my dad there stood for only about 1 minute. He looked at grandma and soon walked outside the house. I could see a tear drop lingering on the border of his eye lashes, waiting to drop down at the slightest unbalanced move. He walked hastily towards another home, apparently to change and get dressed for the rituals. I saw him slipping and tripping, I ran and helped him balance himself. We soon emerged out of that home semi naked with only a thin white towel tied around our waist, covering our legs till a few inches below the knees. The ritual demanded that we bathe ourselves in this outfit by pouring water over our body a couple of times. I was a bit uncomfortable to the idea of getting wet with a thin cloth that would be almost transparent when it gets wet and sticks to my body, however I had to do what the ritual commanded and I did, along with many other men. I do not exactly know how many more men like me and dad were there, wet and ready for the rituals, but there were at least 10-20 people from a range of ages.
Dad initiated the ritual, being the eldest son. After many formalities that had to be followed, which I was unsure of whether was present since the Vedic ages or were added very recently we finally moved Grandma’s body to the place where she would be lit to a funeral pyre. Again dad initiated the rituals here, and all of us followed in descending order of age. As part of one of the rituals, I had to touch Grandma’s feet and pray. I found it hard to find her feet within the layers of sheet covering her body and when I did I held it loosely and bowed down. I knew I trembled, and I chanted some ‘Aum’s and had let go off her feet. I wished I had cried. I felt void of emotions.
I vaguely remembered the time when Granddad had expired. I was barely 7years old. Back then with a financial status way poor that what we have today we still came by flight and reached on time for the rituals. I remember I had sat near Grandma who was weeping furiously and I too had cried. I remember how I cried back then and today I felt disappointed on myself that my eyes were not even wet. What has changed me so much? Have I become so stoic that even the death of a closed one cannot stir me? I watched as three men covered her corpse with layers of cow dung cakes, camphor, and many such things. As they were scattering the dung cakes I saw a cockroach who escaped from the bag full of dung cakes. It lacked the brown color that these bugs have and with its pale exoskeleton it looked more disgusting. It ran towards the heap of carefully placed dung cakes on Grandma’s corpse. Its entry was secured by more dung cakes. How foolish of this creature to escape from a bag to a pyre. As I wondered how it was going to be a funeral for two living things, I was disturbed by a man who directed dad to start the pyre.
I felt stupid for being lost in the thoughts of a cockroach and such stupid things when I should be feeling sad or at least something for my Grandma who lay lifeless before me. My dad started the fire, and we were told that except my dad who still had some more rituals to complete, everyone else who were part of the ritual could go, bathe and change. I was relieved to get back to some comfortable clothes but I did not show the enthusiasm. As I walked towards the bathroom, I walked slow. I wanted to take as much time as possible to think about me, about the person who just left us all, and about how emotionally indifferent I have become. As I started walking away I turned back to see my dad looking at the pyre. I was standing beside him the entire day, holding him or talking to him whenever his wall of faked calmness was about to crumble.
I walked towards him and stood besides him. He was still looking at the pyre. I held him to break his flow of thoughts which I successfully did. He looked fine and composed. He was no more faking it. I wondered if some how the burning pyre also allowed him to accept what happened with comfort, inside somewhere a part of me started making a theory of what could be the average time for a person to feel fine after some one close dies. I shooed away my stray thoughts and looked at the pyre. There was my Grandma’s body, now almost burnt to ashes. A fate which we all share though the way the body disposes off differs. A fate which we all accept. And surrounded by the pyre I see men, who believed that by this pyre they would make her life after death easier and better. I was never sure of how effective these rituals were, but I did not want to be a rebel on this. Within some hours the pyre was now just tired smokes trying to escape through the ashes. The aura around was no more melodramatic. I was talking with my cousins and they were laughing and joking about things. My dad and some elders were discussing about other coffee table discussion topics. Some were in the kitchen preparing dinner. I smiled and looked at my dad who was by now very engrossed in some deep topic about Indian customs. I looked at the pyre and then some urge made me to look above at the night sky. “Good bye Grandma” I whispered.