Mother Mary Comes to Me

I was in the tenth standard when Arundhati Roy's The God of Small Things won the Booker Prize and it was a coincidence as I discovered later on that she too has a river in her dreams, the River Meenachil that she grew up next to. So, the idea of becoming a writer was too fixed in my mind and I wanted to write about a childhood near the River Pamba. On growing up, all this changed but there occasional spurts of writing that talks of redefining yourself in the present context.

It is part of fan writing that I explore writing about her latest book, her memoir featuring her mother whom she calls her shelter and her storm. The book is about her mother Mary Roy, leading educationist and the woman who fought for ancestral property rights in Kerala. Mary Roy was the founder of a school Pallikoodam in Kottayam. Roy traces her childhood in Ayemenen in Kottayam and the memoir details her youth as an architecture student in Delhi, her meeting with her future husband Pradip, the literary endeavours that she made throughout her life as a writer.

She has managed to capture the contradictions involved in the relationship with her mother- the devotion and the differences, the need to connect and the need to stay away. What I loved the most was the chapter involving the writing of The God of Small Things and also some reminiscences from her writerly life. 

Best Version

Reminders of Self-care

Forget

 

It is strangely pleasing,
To see that you remember,
Each and every word I said,
Every word of nonsense,
Recorded and stored,
In your fond memory
 
All the queer fantasies,
Uneasiness and likes,
Every turn of phrase,
Recorded and stored,
Carefully held close
In your fond memory
 
But I would rather you forget,
Every little thing, every word,
Than remember and store,
Treasure with sharp ache,
Going through every day,
Like on a bed of arrows
 
I would rather you change
Change with the seasons
Dance with the crowds
Shake with roaring laughter
Smile that slowbreaking smile,
Than ever remember me
 
Yet every night the candle burns,
With thoughts sent as waves,
Prayers that may or may not reach,
For all blessings to fill your hands,
And strength to forget, forget, forget
An intense slice of an uneventful life.
 

The plans

The Unsent Letters

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.

 

Rain Ragas

Beneath the banyan tree, a woman sat singing ragas—her voice supple and resonant, carrying songs that beckoned the monsoon. The land lay parched, the sky bare of promise, and people draped in thin cottons gathered beneath the scorching sun, their brown skins burnished by heat.

Her ragas rippled through the blazing afternoon, offered to the gods of sky and wind. As the notes rose and fell, the people remembered summers when the earth had been mercifully drenched—when rain arrived unannounced, generous, redemptive. Children lingered by the dried temple pond, imagining the cool days when they splashed in its waters, rested in the shade of rocks, or sat laughing with mango juice staining their hands and faces.

The singer sang on—songs of longing and praise.

Oh rain,
long-awaited boon of the heavens,
bringer of joy to the earth and solace to its people.
Come with thunder and lightning,
soak our brown skins with delight.

I invoke you in the name of the barren soil,
the emptied rivers and lakes,
the animals and birds,
the silent trees and the waiting people.

The songs spoke of relief—of blazing afternoons softened by the first drops, of warm earth releasing its ancient scent, of trees adorned like brides in fresh jewels. For the rain, incense was burned and prayers chanted; for the rain, hopes endured. The land and its people waited.

Then, suddenly, the wind stirred.

Trees swayed under its urgency, and grey clouds rose, bruising the sky with the promise of release. The air thickened. The first drops fell—tentative, then assured—and soon the rain poured down in abundance. Thunder cracked. Lightning split the heavens.

The drought had ended.

The city rejoiced as rain washed over open hands and uplifted faces. Children danced and screamed with delight as water drenched their bodies, laughter ringing through the downpour. The earth drank deeply. The people surrendered joyfully.

And beneath the banyan tree, soaked and smiling, the singer continued—still humming the strains of Megh Malhar.

Your Compass

Dear Self

Life's secrets

The Story Of Badhiya

There is a story about a cousin of the Buddha whose name was Badhiya. He was governor of a province in the kingdom of Shakya, in present-day India. One day a number of his friends who were monks and students of the Buddha came to him and invited him to join their community. He hesitated. As a governor, he had at his command many soldiers, a lot of money, and a very powerful position. But finally his friends persuaded him. He left it all behind and came empty-handed into the forest, where he was ordained by the Buddha as a monk. He didn't have a fancy house to live in anymore. He only had three robes, one bowl, and a sitting mat.

One night Badhiya was meditating at the foot of a tree. Suddenly, he uttered the words, 'Oh my happiness, oh my happiness. It happened that another monk was sitting nearby. The other monk thought that Badhiya regretted having abandoned his position as governor. So in the early morning l that monk went to the Buddha and reported to him. 'Dear teacher, late last night I was sitting in meditation. Suddenly I heard the monk Badhiya exclaiming, "Oh my happiness, oh my happiness." I think he has some problem.'

The Buddha sent his attendant to invite Badhiya to come. In front of a group of monks the Buddha said, 'Badhiya, is it true that last night during sitting meditation you pronounced two times the sentence, "Oh my happiness, oh my happiness"?" Badhiya said, 'Yes, noble teacher, I did pronounce that sentence twice.

'Could you explain to us why you have pronounced these three words during the night?' the Buddha asked.

Badhiya said, 'Dear teacher, when I was a governor my palace was guarded by hundreds of soldiers. But I was still very afraid. I was afraid robbers would come and kill me or at least take away all my valuables. So day and night I lived in fear. But last night I realized that now I have nothing to lose. I was sitting out in the forest at the foot of a tree, and never in my life have I felt so safe. Nobody wants to kill me anymore because I have no power, no wealth, and no jewels for anyone to take. I have nothing. Yet I finally have everything. I am touching such a great happiness and freedom. That is why I have pronounced the words, "Oh my happiness, oh my happiness." If I have disturbed someone, I am sorry. 

From Thich Nhat Hanh's No Mud, No Lotus

Self-care

dreams

self worth

Reaching out

Diary of a Female quixote

Making memories

I want to spend some time with you and I want to know everything about you. I want to spend all the best days across various seasons with you, wandering this world and learning more of you, what you are like and your likes and dislikes, creating some really good moments together. Someday, I want to look back and think that we were creating memories together.

I want to know close, read each and every look, every smile, learn your language and also what you say without using words. I want to see and remember how your eyes light up in a smile and how my world lights up with your smile and how this world lights up making it a better place to live.

Your fingers touch me and I forget myself and the worries of this world. Your lips kiss mine teaching me the art of love every single day.

It is with this pleasant feeling of being loved that I want to go to sleep at night and it is with the certainty of your arms around me that I want to wake up in the morning. 

1 January 2025

The New Year began quietly at 0001 while I was busy writing in my journal. This has been my habit for the last many years when I have found happiness in journaling about the passing year and the coming one. Unlike childhood, when the New Year began with prayers in the church with the Midnight Mass, the years since my marriage in 2008 have been blessed with midnight musings and nothing else. I have jumped like the proverbial monkey from faith to spirituality to religion to nonbelieving all the time and its hardly news that I don't go to church any longer though I am spiritual and read religious books of all kinds. There are sounds of firecrackers coming from the neighbourhood and every year, it has been a special New Year with the people singing Te Deum at the midnight mass.