Melodies New

Pic Courtesy: The Web

When the sun shines and the moon fades early morning,
While birds sing in trees and the morning is wet with rain,
The wind blowing and hooting along with the noisy raindrops,
You come in my heart as goose bumps and memories,
Your hand holding mine in words that I cannot remember,
You are the rain; you are the rain that made my world spring.

For years my barriers were high, but this moment they’re lost,
For days my heart was barren, without love, now full of love,
Singing melodies and missing my self that was there before you,
Slowly eating away my heart as you go away even a minute,
Again you become rain kissing the leaves, the earth and me,
As nature springs up in delight with rain, I’m alive with you.

Though far away you walked, on a tender moonlit night,
With moon a crescent hung like an ornament from sky,
Your face lit with love, your eyes glittering as you smiled,
Your love as memorable as the moonlit night you left;
My heart remembers you yet knows there’s no going back,
There’s no going back to what we were to each other.

There’s no going back except in dreams and days like this:
When memories are singing along with my frozen heart,
When nature reminds, resurrects and buries emotions,
Like heartbeats that once stopped and ran with your smile;
To feel the love that we made our home in a distant land,
Long ago and far away in the world of forgotten dreams.

Letters to the Self

Dear Self,

I clearly remember the day I first saw a song on YouTube titled Ajitha Hare. I scrolled past it without listening, not knowing that it would one day become such an inseparable part of my inner world. Later, I came across a version sung by Gowri Lekshmi and something about it lingered within me for days. I listened to it again and again until I slowly learnt to sing it myself.

Only later did I discover that it was a Kathakali padam, woven into the rich cultural tradition of Kerala. From there began a quiet journey through its many renditions, each carrying its own emotion, devotion, and depth. Somewhere along the way, the song stopped being just music and became a refuge — a place of solace from the noise and restlessness of the outside world.

When I look back now, I feel grateful for the day the song entered my life. I think you feel different about the whole experience of listening to it. would not feel quite the same without it. Even today, I return to Ajitha Hare not merely to listen, but to lose myself completely in the beauty of the song and the timeless spirit of the Kathakali padam.

Love,

Self

Varshaa: Rain Melodies

In one of his stories, the celebrated Malayalam writer T. Padmanabhan writes of a man who loves to listen to the sounds of rain so much that he takes a cassette of rain-sounds with him abroad. When he feels homesick, he listens to the sounds of rain- the sudden outburst, the pitter patter of rain on the roof, on the ground and to the sounds of occasional thunderbolts. The rain has always held a fascination for artists and is a constantly celebrated theme in Indian literature and films. 

The theme of the rain is explored by the artists Jason J.Nair and Aby in Varshaa: Rain Melodies, a collection of five rain melodies that inspire both creativity and nostalgia. Though it bursts on you unawares and creates plenty of inconvenience, the rain serves as a muse or a source of inspiration for many writers and artistes. The rain pitter-pattering outside, the sound of thunderbolts flashes of thunder across the sky, the wait for the rains symbolised by the dance of the peacocks or the memories of getting drenched unexpectedly, there are so many threads that come together on listening to these rain melodies.

Song of the Summer

In the rising heat of the season, you dream of the monsoons, the waterbodies that give you comfort and tall glasses of cool and tasty drinks that offer you solace. You read up old lores on how the ancient Indian musician Tansen made rain with his raga Megh Malhar and the power of music to bring about change in nature. And, there you are lost watching a video online of an Indian musician sitting under a banyan tree singing this raga and in ten minutes, it starts raining all of a sudden. 

On the way back from work, you look with longing at the river nearby and long to immerse yourself in its soothing waters till you no longer remember the sizzling heat of summer. In the orchards, you watch how the waterspouts drizzle the plants to prevent them from turning wan. And, you long to play in the water like you did in a long lost childhood near the River Green. 

The fruit heaps on the wayside shop beckon you with their fragrances-guavas, watermelons, lime and mangoes. When you look at these and think of the cool fruit juices that you can make with crushed ice and some mint leaves. Yet, sometimes when no fruits are available, usually resort to your traditional summer drink of buttermilk that you enjoy making at home mixing the right amounts of buttermilk, shallots ginger, curry leaves, jeera powder and salt. And, you wonder how some simple ingredients available at home can create a magical drink that makes you forget the woes of this scorching season. In the lazy evenings, you smear yourself with turmeric and sandalwood in a routine to beat the heat. The sun shows on your face and in the exposed parts of your body way too much and the paste cools you down and helps you sleep better.

In this summer tedium, one longs for the beats of the monsoon,the warm smell of rising earth during the first rain, the lazy mornings when one sleeps in when you don't have to go anywhere and just like that in this between time of twilight, when the lamps are lit for prayer and prayers chanted in the temples, one dreams of home, of being one with you and one longs for the comforts of cool water and refreshing drinks.

#summer

Green Again

A bit of bright blue sky to sing aloud;
A pelt of rain to sleep comfortably;
A bit of thunder and lightning to look
And feel brave and happy at times.

The swooping  airshow by the kites;
Caught by the eye and not on the lens,
The evening palettes in hues of blue,
That brings back some thoughts of you.

Like a chorus in a song, you play nonstop,
While I watch the skies and the rain,
Look at the fresh green banyan leaves
Turn wan in the summer sun like me.

The tiny heart-shaped leaves will flicker,
And our hearts will turn green once again.

Journal: Serious and Trivial

The pages of my journal await to record a few thoughts. These could serious, trivial or even a mixture of both just like life. All these rambling thoughts were gathered from the same quixotic heart that has loved to dream, to fly, to win and to keep.

The serious thoughts were all about love and the longing to be with the one you love and the need to make him your heart's anchorage and sacred space, how from a chance acquaintance he grew into my world and how this love is celebrated in an alternate universe of togetherness. 

The trivial thoughts were scribbled on early mornings as a bundle of words in the dream journal as a celebration of the pure delight of being alive, when a burst of fresh air, a bit of bright blue sky or a belief in the goodness of life were more than enough to keep this heart on cloud nine. 

But the best ones are the mixed ones, a little serious and a little trivial about things that celebrate the joy of life that finds room in today's dream journal. 

The Unsent Letters

Dear Sean

If you ask me what will you do given the same crossroads, I will give the answer that I will do everything differently, take a risk for you and will give everything just to get you I'm life. You will be my top priority and I will not think twice about it. For every day, this heart has longed for nothing but your return and I will never think twice before picking you from the choices that I am given in any life.

Love
Berry

Earworm

You play like a song that is stuck in my head even though the passage of time has brought so many changes. You have stayed like a persistent song and you are the place where my thoughts end, the place where they reach home. 

Once we were wanderers in the strange lands and went through the different phases of being the dreamer, the nurturer and the wanderer. Our outwardly selves were quiet but we loved dancing to wild beats of music and at the same time loved our silences. 

Now, though the years have gone so by, your memory plays in my being like a soulful monsoon melody. For those who are wiser advise that to cure one earworm, you need another one but my thoughts find you as their home. 

For when I met you, I never knew that you are my perfect earworm ever possible, one that stays my favourite and that I will never get bored even if it plays from morning till midnight.

The Unsent Letters

 

Evenings at the Indian Coffee House

In this middle age, I wonder how life has turned out to be, so different from the images that I had when someone asked me to imagine how life will be after ten years. I have always dreamt of you at my side as my life-partner, with two lovely children of ours to greet the days, a comfortable set of old friends to grow old together and a cosy little home that I took time to decorate with curios from the places we visited together as a couple and a huge library of all the books that we used to read. 

But when I reached this milestone all I have is a history of losses- the disappointment of a broken love that almost came to fruition, the years spent trying to pull yourself back together, the indifference of your loved ones, the absence of real friends and the lacks that are spelt so clearly and in bold letters everyday. It has been years since you called anyone a friend as you have only acquiantances and you never offer a shoulder to cry as you used to do before nor ask solace from anyone despite of being miserable and broken. You wear a brave face in the crowds and break down miserably in your solitude as you plod on with your busy everyday life. 

Then in the evenings and weekends you form a bond with your workmate and share the same sense of joy at the aroma of freshly ground coffee and piping hot Masala dosa at your favourite haunt, the old Coffee House in the city. On some busy days, you have to scream to make your companion understand what you are trying to say, all amidst the hustle and bustle of the staff in the old Coffeehouse, full of life. 

Over a period of months, we form a unique bond, minus our histories and sad luggage, looking forward to what is served on the menu only with a common love shared for solitary hangouts be it an evening by the seashore or a quiet swim in the nearby river. Gradually, your sad face attains a brightness of being loved in return without knowing any of your past  wounds and your time is spent in tasting the old brew of hot coffee and eating the same Masala dosas. We write a life of being in the moment -looking forward to our days of favourite comfort food at our favourite hangout.

The Story Teller

Life was an open book;
Everyone knew everything
About her life and times,
And she was a storyteller
Creating happy endings
In the worlds to come.

There were adventures
Waiting to be written down.
When the words came to her
She set them in a beautiful script
With happiness, prosperity and love,
For themes in everyday life.

She was blessed with abundance
With music, books and coffee,
And always had anything she wanted
From the deepest desire of her hearts
And the lovestory that she wrote

Always had a good ending. 

#definitions

A House for Mr. Biswas

He thought of the house as his own, though for years it had been irretrievably mortgaged. And during these months of illness and despair he was struck again and again by the wonder of being in his own house, the audacity of it: to walk in through his own front gate, to bar entry to whoever he wished, to close his doors and windows every night, to hear no noises except those of his family, to wander freely from room to room and about his yard, instead of being condemned, as before, to retire the moment he got home to the crowded room in one or the other of Mrs. Tulsi’s houses, crowded with Shama’s sisters, their husbands, their children. As a boy he had moved from one house of strangers to another; and since his marriage he felt he had lived nowhere but in the houses of the Tulsis, at Hanuman House in Arwacas, in the decaying wooden house at Shorthills, in the clumsy concrete house in Port of Spain. And now at the end he found himself in his own house, on his own half-lot of land, his own portion of the earth. That he should have been responsible for this seemed to him, in these last months, stupendous.

A House for Mr. Biswas (1961) is V.S. Naipaul’s third novel and deals with the life of Mohun Biswas, an Indian settler in Trinidad and his struggles to have a house of his own. Born the wrong way and considered to be unlucky by his parents, his prank leads to the death of his father. His mother and the four children are separated, Mohun taken into the care of his aunt Tara and her husband Ajodha. To earn a living, he works as a painter of signs and falls in love with Shama of the Tulsi family.

The Tulsi family is a joint family with the mother Mrs. Tulsi, her two sons, her sister and family, her fourteen daughters, their husbands and children, all living under the same roof. He longs for a house of his own and builds two, one of which blows off in the storm and the other catches fire. His struggles to have a house of his own that be “unaccomodated and unhoused” is the theme of the novel.

After years of poverty and humiliation, Biswas gets a job as a news reporter and his fortunes change. He saves money and when his son Anand is humiliated by Owad, the present Tulsi patriarch, he buys a house and takes Shama and his four children there. The house has so many faults that he did not notice but then it is his own and he dies there.

The novel portrays the lives of Hindus in the West Indies and the joint family system is humorously portrayed especially the nicknames that Mohun Biswas devises for his mother-in-law and his brother-in-laws. At the same time, there is pathos in the rootlessness and humiliation that a poor migrant has to suffer in an alien land. A House for Mr. Biswas combines both laughter and tears to depict a man’s attempt to find his self and his own "privacy and space" as Naipaul himself says in his BBC Interview.

Separation

I became a loser when I had to leave my home of seven years. The very memory brings tears to my eyes. The thought is devastating- I have to go leaving behind my home, my child and my in-laws. The sight of these rooms makes me cry including the floors you have scrubbed and the nooks that your hands cleaned. 

You sigh at the memory of the well-kept kitchen and what I see are the necessities of everyday life—including coffee, sugar and bread.Yet tucked away among these ordinary things are remnants of old emotions: the daily activities of a housewife toiling in the kitchen and scrubbing the floors and kitchen utensils. 

The memories from a dysfunctional family remain strongly etched in the memory and how one hated home in a general sense. In the beginning, married life was bliss but it became a pattern to repeat your dysfunctional family here.

And, you need to leave your home of seven years to go back to the home you disliked as a growing youth. What fills your mind is a sense of disbelief at the loss you have encountered and sadness at losing the home you had created. 

Journal: Serious and Trivial

The pages of my journal await to record a few thoughts. These could serious, trivial or even a mixture of both just like life. All these rambling thoughts were gathered from the same quixotic heart that has loved to dream, to fly, to win and to endure.

The serious thoughts were all about love and the longing to be with the one you love and the need to make him your heart's anchorage and sacred space, how from a chance acquaintance he grew into my world and how this love is celebrated in an alternate universe of togetherness.

The trivial thoughts were scribbled on early mornings as a bundle of words in the dream journal as a celebration of the pure delight of being alive, when a burst of fresh air, a bit of bright blue sky or a belief in the goodness of life were more than enough to keep this heart on cloud nine.

But the best ones are the mixed ones, a little serious and a little trivial about things that celebrate the joy of life that finds room in today's dream journal. 

Female Icarus

Your soul was a huge flame—blazing bright, leaping toward the sky in its effort to stand for what you truly wanted. You fought for your dreams until the end. But after many ups and downs, your soul grew weary. In the struggle with life, you lost the joy of living, and your spirit began to feel the heavy angst of existence.

When you look back at the years that have passed, you remember that you are like Icarus at heart—always flying above your mazes in your quest for freedom.

There were times when this soul was too silent, too shut away, too withdrawn—unable to find meaning in life. Yet over time, you learned to read the mazes and fly out of them. This dash for freedom began to feel effortless, even natural.

Still, the soul yearns for those yesterdays—when, like Icarus, you escaped the maze and conquered difficult situations with courage rather than caution. You were full of ingenuity and bravery, and though it took time to heal your hurt wings, you eventually dashed into the wild skies once more.

 

Dreamtime

 

This is the part of the dreaming earth that you become part of when you sleep or when you reach the ecstasy of creation, the place from where you learn the mysteries of the universe, from this deep slumber where you wake up refreshed and rejuvenated. 

The place where your flow activities take you, where you lose your sense of time and you step into kairos time and return back to chronos time having been part of creative forces. 

The place where your body rests in the rhythms of nature, in the cycles of sun, moon and the transits of the planets and you feel one with life in the universe. Then, this food that you eat and the love that you cherish becomes medicine that feeds your joy of living. 

You learn that all this knowledge shared in the times about this universe is all relative and arbitrary; that you need to learn wisdom from the wise to help you live better and to trust your own intuition so that you can recognise what your heart wants. 

This rest, this break, this act of doing nothing but rest and sleep and restore has been nothing but magic, of trusting in the divine timing of the universe. 

Under the banyan tree

Under the huge banyan tree
Who loves to sit with me,
And sing his soulful songs,
Watch the tender leaves flicker-
Come here, come here, come here!
Here we shall live
With no worries
All through this summer.


Our dreams soar sky high
Forever in the sunshine
Happy where we are
Happy with what we have
Come here, come here, come here!
Here we shall love
With no fears
All through this summer.

Secrets

There are no skeletons in the cupboard. There are no secrets carried from the family. What I see instead are the necessities of everyday life—coffee, sugar, bread, and tea. Yet tucked away among these ordinary things are remnants of old emotions: the daily activities of a housewife toiling in the kitchen and scrubbing the floors and kitchen utensils. 

The memories from a dysfunctional family remains-  a few broken loves from the past and memories of a family that once burned with the intensity of an inferno, only to be replaced by another as the years passed. Much of life has been spent in words. Some became precious gems, treasured and preserved through time. Others dissolved into silence, while a few transformed into songs of remembrance that continue to echo through the mind. 

There were moments of passion and upheaval, a purple riot of emotions that ran through the years, bled into experience, and eventually settled into a profound silence of its own making.The days themselves were often ordinary, filled with routine, mistakes, and small absurdities. Yet they were always balanced by the world of imagination. 

In shades of midnight blue, fantasies breathed life into forgotten stories and resurrected memories long buried beneath the weight of passing years. They uncovered dreams that had once been abandoned and revealed how much of the past still lingered beneath the surface.

Looking back now, most secrets have faded away with time. However, there are words that one write once in a while of forgotten loves and memories, of losses, victories and the many wanderings of the hearts among paths that it liked . They remain along with its obsessive thoughts of a single enduring love- you. 

Ships that pass in the night

In the days of our togetherness, I always thought that you will be the kind of love that will stay with me forever. You were so full of life with a warm love-light in your eyes, with bounce in your steps and a well-measured choice of words. 

I thought I had found my fairy land with you where everyday was magical with my princess life and the countless songs that you croon everyday. 

For me, you were my soul connection, a bond that was formed in an instant when your eyes met mine. In a few days' time, you changed from a stranger and became my entire world. 

Looking back, I see that you were nothing But like ships that pass in the night in real- one that stayed only for a while. 

The monsoons

After much awaiting, the monsoons arrive quenching the wrath of the scorching summer that has gone by and you celebrate its advent along with nature. You forget the harshness of the summer season and the days spent expecting news of the arrival of the rains.

You recollect the burning heat of the summer season, the cool  summer drinks that offered you comfort, the visits to the beach that were part of the plan to soak yourself in the sea and the soothing baths that helped you sleep at night.

You sing the songs of the monsoon along with the rain and you love listening to the pitter patter of the raindrops on the roof. You rejoice by getting soaked to the bones in the first rain and enjoy it so much that your miserable summer is forgotten. 

Your mornings are spent snuggling inside your warm blanket listening to the pitter-patter of rain falling rhythmically on the tin roof.