Bheegi bheegi...

"
Today was a better day compared to yesterday. Your day. The day of the diary. The emptiness of yesterday transformed into wisps of white clouds bringing in hope. Rain of hope. Raining down on the lush green fields with crops ready for harvest. Harvesting of the past. Yet leaving out the roots underneath the grounds. Roots of the past. Readying for the next cropping. Cropping of the new seedings of hope again. Writing this co incidentally i hear the song.... Bheegi bheegi from gangster literally translated like this (i find this funny!!)
Wet, everything wet,
the damp night
damp memories,
damp happenings
look at your moist eyes...

Today was the day of joy. Of endless television viewing. Of never ending chitter chatter of the small boys who play cricket down the street disturbing the afternoon nappers. Of the moments of silence while everyone is out. Of the appetising "outside" food. Black forest cake and samosas. Of the dinner : a ladle of baby corn soup with veggies. The warm yet wet turned cool air in the evenings blew off the flames of despair dancing and prancing bout from yesterday's emotional power cut. Today I finished Arundhati Roy's "The god of small things"... evident here in my language ain't it diary. Its had its effect. Of the strange swirl of Kerala in the shimmering backwaters of my memories. All encased complete with the scents and sights. Of the coconut oil, and coconut tree canopies overlooking the murky waters, the plantain chips fried with the scent of burnt wood in the stove and the yellow chips with the black seed in its centre, the ripe mangoes whose strands lodged between two teeth and the lone boatsman down the waterways...

Tomorrow starts another Monday. Mondays have always been powerful days. Children rushing to school for a new week (some with a "Oh no. Dreaded Monday" on their minds), Offices opening well in advance, Start of a new week. The Som war starts...

"
Sharan's father worked in a private firm, which transferred him to different places all over India. Everthing has its advantages and disadvantages. Repeated transfers made him not develop friends relationships, didn't make him crawl out of his crabby shell. But just like the needle of an injection it administered bitter medicine, for good. Good things to happen. He visited many places, saw different people, customs, cultures. Observed them, Silently. Not asking, not interrupting. For he was shy. Shy of the unknown force which would gobble him up if he spoke. He sang once in the Republic day celebrations in the fifth place they where transferred to. A remote coastal village in Tamil nadu. To be there immediately after experiencing a big city like Howrah in Bengal would have been a culture jolt to some one who travelled less. But here he was for the fifth time. pat! the transfer order came. Pack your bags. And they were here. He was there singing in the middle of the group. Why he was in the middle just before the microphone? A question he cannot answer till date. Was he there because he sang well? or was it because he was the blue chakra in the middle of the national flag formation they had made? or was it just pure randomness. Whatever. Whether people listened or not, he sang. He believed he sang well. Not the higher ranges though. he was incapable of shouting. The plain shouting. The shouting you call people across the street. The shouting people use to call vegetable vendors, people selling ripe bananas yellow, green and the less common red. shouts for the keerai karan ( the spinach vendor) , shouts children emit when the ice cream cart comes with the never ending bell... ting ting... He didnt know why! He believed he wasn't here for shouting at anybody. His more than less normal anger levels were evidence to that. Bheegi bheegi... he hummed one of his favourite numbers... sleep engulfing him. Unknown to him what lay ahead of him. Had he known would he have slept?