Pensiamento Fantastico: My River Green

The River Green always looks like a sheet of green glass, flowing majestically and serenely. It was in a small town beside this river Pamba that I grew up fighting with my brother and playing in its waters.

My memories associated with the river are innumerable.Every evening we, along with my aunt or grandmother and cousins would walk to the river and play in the water for an hour. Every day was fun, with us staying in the water for at least an hour, though both of us never learned how to swim, splashing and shouting, while the sun set and it grew dark.

In the still waters, near the banks, people washed clothes and for bathing or swimming they walked to where the flowing water was. It was an adventure to stand in the flowing currents without falling. It required considerable practice. 

Once we rescued a plaintain trunk from the currents and gave it to a neighbour who raised cows. It was a big adventure, something that brought a "we" feeling between my brother and me, who were like Tom and Jerry throughout childhood.

Then there are boat-rides across the river, holidays during floods (once we had 10 days of holidays) Onam and the Aranmula boatrace, when the decorated snakeboats travel across the river to the beat of the boatsongs. It can be heard from a distance and we would run to the riverbank on hearing the boatsong from the distance, abandoning our sadyas.

On the night of Thiruvonam, belief has that Lord Mahabali comes to see his subjects on his boat called Thiruvonathoni. After midnight, people wait on the banks of the river with lighted torches and lamps for the well-lighted Thiruvonathoni. This was one adventure for we, children to boast about. The ones who had slept that night had nothing to talk about and felt ashamed the next day.

Now the river has changed. It is no longer clean. Clean water exists in the middle of the river and it is a long walk. You need to wade through muddy waters to take bath in clean water and then after bath, through muddy waters again. 

Despite of many changes, this is one of the sacred spaces, I can reach in an instant, travelling in thoughts, to where I like to stand, on that mound of rocks taking in the entire view of the river looking like a large sheet of green glass.

I guess as a child, I viewed everything in relation to the river. Once during family dinner, when I was six or seven, I told my grandfather that the sky ended at the other side of the river. He roared with laughter and asked me:"Really?" 

This blog post is inspired by the blogging marathon hosted on IndiBlogger for the launch of the #Fantastico Zica from Tata Motors. You can  apply for a test drive of the hatchback Zica today.

Quixote

May be a kindly Quixote might rush towards you,
May be a warrior on a white horse might rescue you
If only you let him envelop you in his loving arms,
If only you let him make you forget all your worries.

For there are no invisible windmills left to fight for,
Only the needs such as shelter or grace to live by,
Then the charm of your words to light up my days,
Or the warmth of your smile to keep me alive always.

These songs of a miracle that did move mountains,
These words that sound so simple yet difficult to say,
What the heart wanted to say all these weary years
All melting down before a miracle that's so strange

Simple yet powerful the words rush and gush out
The ways of saying "I love you" written in the skies.

#onefineday

Patience

Many repeat the words of old sages,
When they want you to acquiesce,
For crinkled ladies advice is easy,
To be as patient as mother earth.

They know not the daily struggles of love,
Battles fought for an ounce of freedom,
Several days when life goes topsy-turvy,
Outside and inside our safe homes.

Why can’t a woman live her life?
Get angry, be bold or her own self,
Without fearing who’ll think what,
Or get what she wants in life?

They say the world is not equal,
For they value sons than daughters,
Unless in old age when they need,
Someone to take care of them.

Furious words the old sages give
Any woman who dares to dream.

Dreams in Prussian Blue

Dreams in Prussian Blue (2010) by Paritosh Uttam captures the life of some Fine Arts students in Mumbai. It was recently in the news because Shyam Prasad’s new movie Artist is based on it.

Naina Trivedi, a fresher at Fine Arts College meets Michael Agnelo and his friends Abhinav and Ruchi. Michael’s passion for painting and his charisma sweep her off her feet and she realizes that she has fallen in love with him. To the dismay of her conservative Brahmin family, she leaves home to have a live-in relationship with Michael. The initial plan is that she will write and he will paint. But when they start living together, the responsibility of running the household falls on Naina as Michael does only what he is promised to do- to paint and nothing else.

Caught up in a situation from which there is no turning back, she creates a website for his paintings and calls prospective buyers and art galleries. Michael refuses to turn up for one such meeting with the owner of an art gallery and Naina calls and threatens him with a break-up. Unfortunately, Nicheal meets with an accident on the way and loses his eyesight. It is Abhinav who helps her with the bills and with Michael.

Abhinav and Ruchi live the middle class dream of a secure job, a posh apartment, plans for starting a family and having a car. Naina is distraught that Michael who used to be the best of all has come to nothing while the others are thriving. Inspite of his blindness, Michael continues to paint and she has to work hard to pay the rent and buy new canvases and paints. Abhinav advises her to give Michael used canvases and gives her a box of Prussian Blue that was there at his house.

Michael finishes 24 pictures that depict the history of painting and his exhibition draws people because of the publicity that is given to his blindness. However, Abhinav’s deceit does not stop with the Prussian Blue and Naina is caught up in a fix because of her love for Michael and gratitude for Abhinav. Will she be able to fix her strained relationship with Michael?

Just be

I think the trees don't fish for compliments,
Of making the world a better place to live in.
So full of bloated egotism and the desire
To prove yourself and bring others down.
I think the clouds don't advertise their deeds
And say its all their doing and not of others.
So sure that it is their words that really matter
And not what they think secretly at heart.
Not that I am in anyway perfect than them
But when I read the secrets of their hearts;
All hope turns to dismay and love to ashes;
Envy, anger, jealousy and real hard feelings.
Yet with smiling faces and heart full of venom
They blow their own trumpets and grumble.

Yours

Just be

I think the trees don't fish for compliments,
Of making the world a better place to live in.
So full of bloated egotism and the desire
To prove yourself and bring others down.

I think the clouds don't advertise their deeds
And say its all their doing and not of others.
So sure that it is their words that really matter
And not what they think secretly at heart.

Not that I am in anyway perfect than them
But when I read the secrets of their hearts;
All hope turns to dismay and love to ashes;
Envy, anger, jealousy and real hard feelings.

Yet with smiling faces and heart full of venom
They blow their own trumpets and grumble.

Just Be

I think the trees don't fish for compliments,

Of making the world a better place to live in.
So full of bloated egotism and the desire
To prove yourself and bring others down.

I think the clouds don't advertise their deeds
And say its all their doing and not of others.
So sure that it is their words that really matter
And not what they think secretly at heart.

Not that I am in anyway perfect than them
But when I read the secrets of their hearts;
All hope turns to dismay and love to ashes;
Envy, anger, jealousy and real hard feelings.

Yet with smiling faces and heart full of venom
They blow their own trumpets and grumble.

Heroism

Everyday, we live and die for a beautiful dream
Battle the inner demons for what we stand for;
For the best that is possible in this small world
The best that exists on the verge of dreams.

The fiercest battles with the loudest war cries
Fought with the inner demons not with others;
For we are like the true warriors of yesteryears
Who raged against all injustice and bitterness.

Not that this base metal has turned into gold
But might need years of being in the run
The everyday battle with perfectionism
The tiniest details in its perfect little place.

Yet in a way you praise the might of the sun
Who finds courage to rise up after it's done. 

The End

Dear Reader
This blog was a hobby, a way of living and a platform for sharing the writing experience and also of expressing personal and collective angst. For a while, I want to take a break from this habitual outpour of personal details....:-)

Regards
Maria Joy

Drops of Youth

In tiny glass bottles, they sell drops of youth,
At exorbitant prices and dreams of perfection.
The words persuade, I decide to buy some
Just to check out for an overnight miracle.

Drops of youth, she claims can cure your scars.
Can melt away your acne-scars and pimples;
The girl mutters guessing my Achilles' heel
The need to have perfect pimple-free skin.

While I read her compact and eyeliner,
The perfect matte and the Absolute range
And think of the many things I have tried-
Diet, facewashes, scrubs, oils and whatnot.

Yet I'd love to keep an old belief of this land,
That they're brought on by an admirer's eyes.

Pic: www.sabrinatajudin.com

The here and the now

You and I were always like this, spending time together without demanding much from each other, what others think as necessary. I think our priority was togetherness first though we belonged to two different spaces altogether. But when I look back, I am amazed by the thoughts that we shared though we were so distant and by the kind of support that we were to each other.

Nowhere but here that's what I wrote when I thought whether you might be wondering where I was, being away from you. Now, in the present space, when such togetherness is no longer existent or real, I look back with wonder at the beautiful days that we had spent together, weaving dreams out of words.

History

This is the story that I have always wanted to write, the story of you and me, not just the pain of parting and break-up, but the sunshine and laughter and a few moments that remain clear like the bright blue sky above me on this beautiful day, unusual blue that stands out with little wisps of cotton clouds. What all fears did we hold out in the palm of our hands that when we reached and spoke with our hands held together, the fears spoke aloud and we could not stop the hands from finding and fighting the fears by melting into each other but time came and took it all away and our love was not writ in stars, but only in water, our love was written in only in water. Yet the love that hands founds and the body vaguely remembers could not remain in the sudden tides that took us apart. We wave desperate, deaf and blind, on either shore, having burnt boats and with tears, shout to each other, helpless.