My daily visitors.

The swiftest visitor ...squirrel

The green filigree that greets me every day.

Ageless .Has been always around on the walls ,where ever I have resided, at all ages and times!Gecko![balli]A pigeon from neighbouring perch..

In a trice.

Within the space of 3 minutes and 3 yards ,my 3 decades of past life unfolded and vanished in a trice.

The anxious mother in her nightie waving to her rosebud like junior peering at her through the windows of the school van. His face ,fresh as well as a bit downcast at the the thought of the few hours of separation and then hastening to wave at her with his tiny hands as the van pulled on.

A school boy in early teens with satchel on his back walking to his school looking and kicking at everything on the road side with interest as well as disdain.He was followed by a college student in late teens in jeans , looking unconcerned and casual as he sauntered disinterestedly towards the bus stop.

Just behind was a young adult in formals, face glowing with a early morning shave and shoes shining with layers of polish striding with the keeness of one readying for a battle .

Not one of them gave me glance. Each of them , in their own worlds.

In between these different worlds was a foursome of giggling girls in uniform , lugging their burdensome books to school. Was I once like them? Carefree! Unattached! Happy at the sheer joy of living with rosy dreams ?

I was , 4 decades earlier. The cold fact is that it is nigh well impossible to revive and relive those feelings once again.It seems so ,so long ago.

Secured.

I was busy in the kitchen when the loud cooing of koels , very close by drew my attention.

There were 2 black koels with eyes as red as coal embers, sitting side by side on the branches of the gulmohar tree,,whispering to each other . A whisper so loud that it could be heard a mile off!

This coo some conversation lasted for quite some time ,till it was thwarted by the resident crow, chasing them away , guarding its precious thorny nest.

The territory was succesfully secured by the crow for its cawing clan.

Photo.The crow's nest.

Some memories remain fresh.

The utter despair, writ large on the bearded grieving father, revisited me , filling my eyes with silent tears.

Thiruvizha.

The annual festival was on in honour of Amman in nearby temple very recently.

A mega event . To which all the residents of the street were personally invited with an invitation the size of a laptop! The first 3 days are filled with religious fervour. Abhisekams of the presiding deity with milk. Venduthals [vows] performed by men and women by piercing their cheeks with long spears,thin and thick, mostly men and some of them dragging the auto , car or vans that they use and ply, by securing its front by ropes to metal hooks digging into their loose flesh on their shoulders and back , followed by women getting into trance and swaying and dancing and finally wrapped up by free lunch and dinner-- annadhanam.

The next 7 nights are devoted to entertainment. Dance, drama, music, mostly filmy variety and cinema.

The traffic is blocked [ not this time though], garbage piles high and my flat trembles and shakes at the loud blast from huge stereos.

This goes on every year, has been for the past 35 years ! An outlet and escape to all those labouring all year around with which I have no quarrel, even watched some unique dances like snake dance and the courageous dance of a one legged man but do have with the high decibel of the sound systems.

Photos :The lighting of the event.

To some, memories donot fade.

We were sitting in a circle listening in rapt attention to a middle aged Tamilian relate his horrifying experience at the site of the bomb blast at SriPerembadur , the very place and the very instant Sri Rajiv Ghandhi was killed.

This narrator was a young reporter then and was very near the dias , covering the event and taking down the speeches delivered at that election campaign.

Suddenly he heard a ear splitting sound and saw huge flames leap up on the stage, before he fell down senseless.When he came around ,shortly, he saw utter confusion and mayhem . There was smoke every where . His clothes were singed and tattered and covered with grime. He slowly sat up and saw several pieces sticking to his body. They were warm, soft and sticky and when he brushed them away his fingers became stained with blood. With a shock he realised that they were all pieces of human flesh! Not his. He passed out again.

When he woke up next, it was in a hospital . He opened his mouth to speak to his anxious family surrounding his bed, but no words would come out . He couldn't move his body . He could hear and see every thing , but couldn't respond.

He was in this state for two years One day he came out of it but was still confined to the hospital bed as he felt excruiting pain in his back. It took him some more years to overcome this as well as the relentless questioning by the police, to finally walk out of the hospital.

He was taken back by his original employers . And when he was sent on assignments memories of that terrifying day always flooded back making him shudder and shake in fear . He just couldn't take down notes.

Then it took another couple of years to overcome his pshycological trauma ,through therapy and finally face the world, a full 10 years after that event and start working to support himself and his family , to clear the medical bills and to settle down to a normal life!

I heard this tale, a real one not in Chennai , but in a nondescript dabbha tucked in the Himalayas ,near Deva prayag, where we, a bus load of pilgrims en route to Badrinath were forced to stay put on that spot for a whole day and night, owing to the blocking of road traffic by land slides., last year.

Why am I relating this now ? The debates currently raging on in the media on the merits and demerits capital punishment has made me to do so.

That genial public figure has long since faded and evaporated from my memory so has the revulsion I felt for the prepetrators of the act. But to that man an unwary and unintended victim ,who was relating the intimate details of his traumatic experience to total strangers , it has not.

A red rose.

The blast of stench that heralded the arrival of the garbage truck made me reach swiftly for my hanky to cover my nose , when I was walking on the pavement.

Two young men [garbage collectors] were hanging from the two sides at the rear of that compactor lorry ,totally oblivious or rather immune to that horrible stink. No scarf around their noses or mask.Nothing!

One of them was cheerfully waving a red flower ,he had picked up from the dump ,to some one across the street.I turned and saw that the recipient of this extraordinary attention was a young woman with long flowing hair , who was solemnly wheeling her small garbage collecting trolley ,with its spades and brooms! I couldn't but help laugh at this.

I have seen glossy Romeos climb ornate balconies to offer a red rose to their object of attraction and desire on films . Or offer bunch of flowers to beautifully turned out heroines in glittering , rich and romantic backgrounds.

This unique scene from real life how ever far surpasses those usual ones from reel life in its novelty and poignancy.

This burst of youthful exuberance was at once ironical and comical.