The Hanging Children of Meghadooth (Part 3)

While Hari Sankar and I were the master performers of the glorious Meghadooth theatre, there were some notable guest appearances over the course of the years. Sometimes this involved our respective cousins, but also those occasional child candidates who popped up as residents in Meghadooth III.

The two names that I can remember now are Chinthu and Shyama. Chinthu was, of course, a pet name. I cannot recall her real name. I think she was younger than us, and the other more enthusiastic one who came after Chinthu was Shyama, who was our age.

However, their stay at the ill christened Meghadooth III, was so short that I cannot shed light on any particularly memorable events involving them.

It has to be said that the real addition to our gaming company was made when Malu, my sister, turned old enough to run and climb small heights. Unfortunately for her, she was at the mercy of two tyrannical older boys who cast her in the least wanted roles in many productions. Sigh. The hierarchies of the playground were a bit cruel, as is the custom with most children.

Hari Sankar’s own younger brother Ravi, never really joined in as much, at least not to my recollection. He was a somewhat quiet kid, who preferred to play indoors, I suppose.

One game we played that made an adequate investment in the memory bank, probably because of its silliness, was the wonderfully pointless game of ‘Superhuman Samurai’. It was a television show that aired back then, and I must say, as I'm typing this the theme song just began playing in my head.

Let me give you a brief into to Superhuman Samurai. No, it was not a cool, modern or classic take on a Samurai warrior with superpowers. If only.

The story was set in a high school or college in America. There was a guy and a girl, as there often are, who were the heroes. The bad guy, who I still vaguely remember, was a guy dressed all in black - Malcolm.

I remember this because when the credits were rolling, I always noticed the name Malcolm. This was mostly because I couldn't understand why there would be a second ‘L’ in the word, when they did not seem to pronounce it at all. The strange ways of foreigners, I thought, impressed with the novelty of the language none the less.

Basically, the plot goes thus. Things would be said in English, which we mostly didn't follow. Then the lead guy would play his electric guitar and get transported in a weird ‘Tron’ like world, where computer chips and processors were buildings and towers. But not as himself. No. He would appear as a Power Ranger type figure, who would be fighting Malcolm, who would be controlling a Godzilla type robo - monster. Then the lead guy would transform into a giant robot himself with various other characters forming his various robotic limbs and such.

Sounds confusing?

It was. We just wanted to see the giant robots fight.

The game, that would follow one of the half hour episodes of the Superhuman Samurai, was just the transformation into the giant robot and then a pretend fight with… well, air.

And before you imagine a nifty scene with lots of props, I shall tell you that the giant imaginary robot was formed by me pretending to be a robot head, holding my hands in various abstract shapes while making hissing and whirring noises. Then, Hari Sankar would run at me and stand on my right pretending to be a robot arm or gun. Malu, having no call in the casting process, became a robot shoe, crouched unhappily near my feet.

That about sums it up. Yeah, it wasn't a shining example of creativity.

(concluding part to be posted soon)

The Hanging Children of Meghadooth (Part 2)

Hari Sankar and I grew up together in that compound of childish possibilities galore. The low walled, sparsely wooded and kid friendly land of the Meghadooths, which we would declare our kingdom and make our own for the next decade or so. It helped that our parents became good friends too, although that was inevitable I think. It was an ideal situation in many ways.

Apart from the fact that our names being so similar made it sound like we were brothers, maybe it was the fateful thing that we were the same age and perhaps even of kindred mind sets. At least it feels that way now.

Being born in a family with a great legacy of music, and generations of amazing and respected musicians, Hari Sankar nourished in himself a deep and abiding passion for it. It didn't hurt that he was a gifted singer even back then, and now turns out, a talented musician all around.

My own parental pool of genetic predispositions for the arts made it so that I took a liking to the stage and drawing. My sister, who was born when I was three and three quarters of a year old, would fill the gaps with her talent in music and dancing.

But the really powerful memories of that time that stick with me till this day are not of us children delving in to our respective arts. No, it is of the games we played and the lessons we learned.

Imagination was our toy of choice and the entire compound of the three adjoining Meghadooths was our playground.

Hari Sankar and I went to different schools, so the well flavoured dishes that were our much awaited evenings would be peppered with the tales we heard from our different friends in class. Or from our parents or relatives. It didn't matter the source as long as the story was a good one.

Like the time we had an argument, that eventually split us up for the evening in frustration and anger.

The reason?

Hari Sankar was adamant that the low walls in the compound, that were our friends and a source of steady entertainment as far as I was concerned, were in fact dreadful things that would bite us if we got too relaxed around them.

Looking back, it seems obvious that some grown up had of course convinced him of this, with the aim of deterring him from climbing or running on those walls. But in the tempestuous indignation of childhood, I couldn't let it go and eventually there was a stalemate of will. I have distinct memories of questioning myself at one point in our argument, and carefully studying the surface and edges of one particularly sinister wall, looking for hidden mouths full of concrete teeth.

There was also the time he almost had me convinced that elephant tusks were just good sized bananas.

I can’t help but think he really had some unfortunate sources of information. I, on the other hand, was an embellisher of facts and truths, little and big.

I can think of one occasion in particular where I really over did it.

My maternal uncle was an Assistant Commissioner for the Income Tax Department at the time. This was also, much to my delight, around the same time that the hugely successful Suresh Gopi movie ‘Commissioner’ had come out. Suresh Gopi played a loose cannon kind of a cop who ends up shooting and punching his way to victory, with some fiery monologues thrown in there to add some extra zing.

I, of course, took this as my one moment to really shine at the expense of my uncle and informed Hari Sankar one evening that he, being a ‘Commissioner’ of repute, carried a gun with him at all times. I also added that I was unsure when he might feel like using it or who the target might be. I mean I was safe fortunately, I told him. I'm his nephew after all. But anybody else was fair game.

Anyway, the end result of this lie was that my poor friend, for quite a long while, ran for cover each time my uncle dropped by our house.

Run, Hari, run… screamed I, helping him get to safety once. Sigh.

(still more to come)

The Hanging Children of Meghadooth

So here I am on this pleasant day reading an e-book, lying in a distinctly unhealthy manner, cutting off the circulation to my left arm, on my warm bed with its comfortable arrangement of dusty pillows, towels and wrinkled sheets – and I felt like writing a little something. The idea began to take root in me because I was reading. Reading and writing, I've discovered, have a cyclical relation in me when it comes to motivation. If the author of whatever book I'm reading has an interesting way of writing, this prompts me to write a few words myself and conversely, if my writing feels satisfactory, I feel like rejuvenating the little grey cells with more words from perhaps a better writer.

The book that has me got all excited today is David Mitchell’s “Backstory”. I should point out that this isn't David Mitchell the novelist who authored “Cloud Atlas” but the British comedian and television personality. I just love the man and the moment I became aware of this book, I had to get it. It’s a really witty and well written memoir by Mitchell.

In the first part of the book, he talks about his childhood, recalling various incidents while also a providing refreshingly funny and astute social commentary, moving in and out of the past and the present with amusing ease. Couple of lines had me chuckling and laughing out loud and I've barely made it to the second chapter right now. A good read indeed and I recommend it to anyone interested in a light hearted and original piece of literature for a cosy afternoon or late night sleep stalling.

Anyway, it got me thinking about my own childhood. Though I am someone who considers it generally dull and typical in an absent minded way, I do tend to look back on it with fondness. I was a sickly kid, thanks to my asthma, but whatever experiences I had of being ill seems to have faded in to the background of memories now. They give me no sorrow and what stand out are the good moments of being a ‘typical’ child in the eighties and early nineties. You know, before there was cable television all around and computers ate up all your time. Game consoles were still a fantasy, at least in my world back then.

Television meant a single low resolution channel at first, and soon there were two and then three. The Door Darshan days. The days of entertainment depending heavily on frequent power outages, adjusting the bony antenna on the roof and banging desperately on the side of the television when tinkering with its knobs failed. Though I have really good recollection of my obsession with watching the flickering screen of black plastic magic box that stood in my bedroom/ partial living room, I am turning this post away from that to the more eventful time I spend with my best friend.

Hari Sankar.

We lived in a house called Meghadooth. Actually I lived in a house called Meghadooth – II. No, it wasn’t a sequel to the block buster that was Meghadooth – I, but the second house in a series of three Meghadooths, all of which were rented out by a single owner. Though it seemed all perfectly normal then, but I can’t help but find it funny now that the owner seemed to have named a house Meghadooth (which means a message from the clouds), and then apparently ran out of inspiration and resorted to naming the other two in an unimaginative serial manner. Or maybe the Meghadooths were a dynasty of kings he was affiliated with, of whom I know nothing about till date.

Me and Hari Sankar (1989)

The Meghadooths were, in any case, a fantastic place to live as a kid. Not so much joy for the parents though, because they were tiny little homes with aged, semi functional facilities. Each of the houses had its own yards, with trees, and were separated by low interconnected walls that would later provide Hari Sankar and me with ample opportunities for climbing, running and other less risky acrobatics.

My parents, as newlyweds, moved in to Meghadooth – II, because it was a cheap place to live, and in a year’s time, I had arrived. Hari Sankar’s family moved in to Meghadooth – I when I was a year old. Could be a year and a half old. Or two.

Let’s just say that it was before the time my brain had begun to actively register memories and so it came to be that I can now say this - for as long as I can remember, Hari Sankar and I have been friends.

(more to come)

Changing Views

I am not a fan of change. This puts me at very uneasy odds with life at best. Life is very little in essence, if not change. My own life, therefore, is a never ending series of losses and draws, with me pitted in eternal denial and stubbornness against the innumerable variables that govern my fate. The struggle to retain the security of the familiar is a hard one indeed.

Given all this, you can be assured that I did not take kindly to my dear parents' decision to move. I had gotten rather comfortable in my dusty room, bereft of ventilation, and forever enveloped in clouds of nicotine and tobacco that had stained, in the span of two years, every surface imaginable in the remorselessly cluttered room.

Nevertheless, it seemed the shifting of homes, and in my case, of tiny little concrete encased worlds, was inevitable.

The move itself went remarkably efficiently I must say. I am not going to dwell much on details there, largely because it was uneventful and I had little to no part in it. Except for maybe taking care not to get in the way of things being lugged and lifted out. Professionals were employed and thing itself transpired without dramatic hitches.

I found myself in my new quarters soon enough. One day I was cocooned in familiarity and poison clouds, and the next day I was in a new world. With a view.

The view from my new room

The new accommodations are a better fit for our family, as it is closer to my father's workplace. But also because it gave my mother much needed space to tinker with the novel organization of our earthly possessions.

My new world is, if anything, the antithesis of my old one. If the latter had been dark and cluttered, the new one is well lit, with a tremendously calming space to it. If the old one had no desirable channel to let in the outside world, this one has three large windows that open to a serene view. The former lair had been surrounded by busy lives emitting a rather loud range of often unpleasant noises. The current living conditions, on the other hand, are somewhat removed from the cacophony of central urban life.

The real surprise was none of this though. The surprising revelation that prompts me to write this post.

It's that I find myself changing now. I like keeping a single window open these days. I find myself sleeping better and have turned to reading after long years of being stuck by my own volition in the world of Youtube videos and movies. The day before yesterday I finished my first book in a long time. It was a good feeling.

I have already started on my next one.

Maybe, just maybe... changing views isn't as bad a thing as I had felt it to be, it seems.

Varanasi

The city of Varanasi lay gloriously bustling behind him. Its ancient walls and streets echoing with the noisy murmur of humanity that had inhabited it for thousands of years now. How many bloody wars had stayed clear of its holy walls? The longest continuously inhabited city in the world itself. What other laurels had this old conglomeration of dwellings, temples and markets accumulated in its rich history? Every which way the eye could see in this place, there was the spiritual attempt of man to reach something beyond his reality. Salvation from suffering. Was that the divine purpose of this ancient place? The assortment of humanity that filled these cobbled and brick lain roads was a curious sight in itself. This city calls souls that suffer to its womb, they say. Men, women and children, the rich and the poor, the young and the old, they all travel from the far corners of the nation to trudge these paths and stand humble among these arcane constructions, no doubt with some personal human purpose that encroaches upon the divine one. The saffron garments of the monks and the sages, wandering with stern intentions, speckle the crowds with their promise of purity. But beyond all, what gave this place the air and enchantment of holiness was that mother of all rivers that flowed through it. Ganga the pure. Or maybe Ganges, as those of a Western persuasion referred to her. The river flowed silently, bathing the saints and sinners alike, and taking all the filth and aspirational rituals of death and life that man could conjure up. She flowed like she had been flowing for millennia, perennial and proud. The chants and prayers from thousands of lips would ring through the city now. It was that time of the day, as dusk spread its golden colours on the rippling waters of Ganga and painted the city a sleepy yellow, the symphony of spiritual starvation would reach its crescendo. And in that moment, the city would resemble what she always had… and probably always will… a beacon of human distress calling out to the heavens.

A Simple Sonnet

May summer's breath be not fleeting in term,

For surely my angel's heart will dismay.

Pray not let notions like seasons confirm,

Such sorrowful wrong as the natural way.

I beg of you stop not the music thus,

Her feet never silent agony bears.

I plead that the rhythm knows not love's fuss,

Made by her dancing; how beauty just fares.

I hope now these words don't ever lose flair,

For my heart they take to her on swift wings.

Guide firmly these hands heavenly muse fair,

Grant me that glory which naught but love brings.

Such are the wishes of one in love's keep,

May they come true lest passion now must weep.

The River Dream

There are many rivers. And there are many tributaries to each river. We are born into awareness in its flow, moving with the current. It takes us a while to realize where we are and forever we keep asking what we're doing there and where we are going. Each of us born in the steady flow of these waters think the whole life and world is contained in what we can see ahead of us, which is but a few hundred yards of deceptive waters. But until we move along it, we are never sure of how rough or easy the current is at each point of this journey. The thing that some of us realize and some of us never do is this - we are bound to flow along with the current. Some times in this journey, when the water gets too rough, we struggle to swim as if that would save us from drowning, and we tire ourselves and drown in it none the less. Other times, when the waters are calm and easy, we convince ourselves that we have mastered the current and now decide our destination. Both are falsehoods. We are never the masters of the river but are unwilling entities that are set afloat in it. Sometimes going under and sometimes just reveling in the pleasure of its sensation. But in the end the rivers and the tributaries all end up in the deep unending ocean. There is no more journey past that. We drown in its immense waters. Some of us, already having let go of our desire to control the waters, drown in peace, holding on to memories of the journey behind us. While some of us struggle till our last breath to find a shore that doesn't exist and drown in considerable fear and anguish. This is the truth about life. This is the only truth about life. That we are part of something that we have no control over and we end in death. The sooner we let go of our desire to brave the waters and just let the current take us where we are all going in the end, the sooner we are at peace.

Word Picture #1

The artist dipped his brush into the bowl of water, and drew it out with swift ease, pressing and sliding its edge against the chalky white metallic edge. The paint that had wet its bristles before in a thick chrome yellow mixed in with the clear liquid forming a swirling cloud of color that moved in hypnotic ripples. His hand paused in mid air for a brief moment, as his gaze fixed upon the canvass and measured the stroke that was about to be. He then jerked in to action and the paint brush traveled through the air, letting drops of now lessened yellow splatter on the ground from its head, before striking the canvass with absolute confidence and moving in transcendent strokes. The camel hair swollen with the moisture of the desired hue now left behind a path pregnant with a shade reminiscent of a ripe lemon peel struck aglow by the shimmering rays of the afternoon sun. The movements of the artist kept pace and matched the rhythm of the classical violin concerto breathing life in to the silent room from an old gramophone in the darkest corner. It was as if the notes of the symphony that provided the artist with his cues were streaming in to his ears from unknown depths of the dusty room's soul. Art and beauty were dancing in heavenly steps bringing to life all that needed to exist, which for the moment, was nothing but the old man and his canvass performing a duet of aesthetic abundance with gracious elegance in response to the unspoken request of the long dead maestro's still vibrant violin strings.

To My Cigarette...

A moment's neglect,

Is thy life begun.

Still I do select

As vice thee poison.

By some drunken curse,

Thou rush to fill these,

Lungs; horns of my hearse

Now bellow, no peace.

But when thy boon slow,

Flows calm in these veins,

I gaze upon thy glow;

How thee dispels pains!

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