The Footballer....

The big toe on his right foot had swollen to twice the normal size.

I looked at him with questioning eyes.

“We were playing Brazil last night. I got the ball for myself,”  my grandfather said , grinning childishly.

I couldn’t help smiling.

He had dreamt of , and played for his favourite football teams in his sleep.  Again !

I sighed and started massaging his toes slowly with his favourite balm.

“But this was worth it,” he said, as I finished.

“What ? This swelling ?”,  I asked.

“ Yes, I scored the winning goal”, he winked and chuckled, as I broke into a laughter.

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# True Story :)

Linking this to Write Tribe's 100 Words on a Saturday.

Dolls.....

She counted the notes in her hand once again.

Rupees 450.

“We don't do it for anything less than 500, woman,” he had said. “And in your case, only if you return before 4 this evening. Can’t wait any longer,” he had added.

That means , at least 50 Rupees more, she thought.

And perhaps a little extra . One could never be sure. And she couldn't take a chance with less money at hand .

 Not now, anyway.

She counted the notes again, and bundled them neatly to the end of her pallu. She turned back to look at the five-year old who had been playing with her doll, under the shade of the tree by the sidewalk.

She had fallen asleep, the doll clasped tight to her bosom.

Poor thing, she must be hungry, she felt sad . The little one had had just a couple of bananas since that morning, and it was half past two already.

If only I could sell these  off quick, she thought, looking at her basket of woollen dolls , which her daughter loved knitting.

Dolls in pairs. The bride and her groom. 
Dressed in  a fabric of creamy yellow with golden laces and a red turban , the dulha dolls matched the beauty of the dulhans in their red and green frilled lehengas, made of crisp shiny cloth.

Four out of the thirteen pairs that she had brought for sale that day remained in the basket.

Thirteen. She cringed at the thought of the number. She wondered why people called it unlucky.

Her daughter always made thirteen pairs.

Yellow and brown . Red and green. Pink and purple. Orange and Blue. In all weird combinations of colours she could imagine.

The whole basket would be a riot of colours when she finished. She would then pair the dulha with his dulhan, and sew their hands together.

An unbreakable bond, she would chuckle.

These woollen dolls that her daughter made had fed them their bread and butter for a long time now; ever since her husband's death . She sold them on the streets, at exhibitions, at the bus stations, near the museums, at the amusement parks - wherever she could find a kind soul who could part with a little money for her work. Usually, they were sold out by the evening. On days when she found it difficult to get customers, she went beyond her comfort zones and ventured into new areas to find a market.

And they pulled on with life.

She looked at the dolls again.

Eyes, nose and ears painted on the wool with a sharp brush and beads glued on to them neatly.

Her waist-length hair , made of thick black wool, braided to perfection.

The red turban conferring the much needed royal look on him.

Such skill !

She smiled at the thought of her daughter's talent.

Doll making was her catharsis. One that made her forget the pain of the love that had betrayed her trust and gone away,  after seeding her womb with a new life in a moment of lust.

The very same life, that was sleeping now under the tree.

She looked again at the sleeping child and tears filled her dry eyes, threatening to flow out with a rapidity she was afraid she wouldn't be able to control.

Poor kid. All of five years, and devoid of love so soon. If only....

" How much for these dolls, amma ?"

She turned to look at the face of an elderly gentleman, kneeling down beside her and examining the dolls with interest.

" Rupees Fifty a pair," she said, her hopes rising.

" Oh... pack three of them , please", he said.

" My grandchildren will love these, " he paid her with a smile as she handed over the polythene cover with the dolls to him.

She now had Rs 600. A little more than what she needed. She could leave now.

Packing the remaining pair in her shoulder bag, she got up and moved towards the little child to wake her up.

They had a long way to go.

" Do you make these yourself, amma?"

She stopped and turned back. The gentleman had returned.

" My daughter made them," she said. " Her mother", she added after a second, gesturing towards the sleeping child.

"Oh... they're just so beautiful. I was just wondering, you had one more pair, aren't you selling that ? ", he asked.

She paused before answering. Should she sell it too ? She would get more money, but no, she didn't need that now.

"No, sir. That's for her. That is all that she has," she said, looking at her granddaughter again.

"Arey, your daughter can make more for her, na", he said, but smiled kindly at the kid who had begun to stir out of her sleep.

She just smiled faintly to this and turned to walk.

" You seem to be in a hurry. Can you do one thing ? Here's my card. Can you just let me know when you have fifty such pairs  ? I want them to gift the children at the Orphanage I'm a patron of", he said, giving her a card.

She looked at him for a moment, and at the card.

" No sir. I'm sorry. I don't think I can. Those dolls were the last of the batch ", she said, lowering her eyes, her  voice curt and steely and turned to walk  under the red hot sun, her hand  tightly wrapped around her granddaughter's wrist.

No more time to explain.

The tears that had threatened her before a few minutes escaped the confines of her eyes and cascaded down .

She lifted her face , chin up , the heat of the sun falling directly on her cheeks.

She wanted the tears to dry soon. Lest the child should ask her the whys and why nots.

She couldn't afford to lose any more time. She had to reach the man before his demand for money went up. And before he could put a finger on the time he had allotted.

Her daughter was waiting for her to return with the money as promised.

She walked, her back bent, her frail shoulders aching , hoping that she was in time for the burial of her daughter's body at the public graveyard.
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Image courtesy - Google Images
*Fiction*

As I flutter by....

I live a life, of love and care,

Short but sweet, and very fair,

Full of colours and extremely vibrant,

You will never find me, for a moment, silent ;

I fly by , happy , cool and gay;

For me, it’s the ‘now’ that holds sway,

I count my life by moments, not years,

I find no time for sorrow or tears ;

My mission in  life is to  show you all,

That days are few, life is so small,

As you live, love and die,

Time just moves, with the flash of an eye.

Live your life, happily ever,

Despair not, fail at heart, never,

Please listen to me as I flutter by,

I am just a lovely butterfly !!

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I am not much of a poetess.

It's just very recently that I discovered that I could play around with words.

I wrote this poem as a part of a story series which I'd planned to write, when I started this blog.

 Somehow, I didn't complete the series, and it still remains so.

 I thought of reproducing the poetry part of the story here.

(Yeah, Old wine repacked... I know :P )

Linking this to 2014 Freelance Success / Wordcount Blogathon.

A to Z Random Post # 20 T - the Tough Job !

He’s as tensed as everyone is.

All are waiting for him ,to decide.

He looks at me, as if in a silent prayer.

I don’t look at him ; I have my work to think of !!

His decision depends on me to a great extent, I’m aware.

I also know ,about the emotions of many people attached to my job.

But no matter what ,  I have to be fair !

I see him walk towards me ,with someone else.

Time for action, now  !!

Someone shouts 'Toss', flips me in the air ;  he wins with 'tails', and his team goes to bat first !

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Linking this to A toZ 2014 and the Ultimate Blogging Challenge.

A to Z Random Post # 19 S - Safe in his love :)

I fall in love with him, at first sight.

I’m sure he has spotted me too, when he walks towards me, his steps confident.

She interrupts him, just then.

I wait with bated breath, as he points his fingers at me , saying something.

To my relief, she smiles and comes straight to me, humming happily.

"You’re going with him, dear," she slowly whispers to me.

Though overjoyed,  I remain solemn.

" Take care of her," she says.

He nods, smiling.

I feel the happy warmth of soft silk on me.

And he walks out proudly with his brand new , stylish Sunglasses !

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Linking this to A toZ 2014 and the Ultimate Blogging Challenge.

 

A to Z Random Post # 18 R - Rejuvenated !

She looks quite happy, as some visitors are arriving this evening.

She sees me and frowns,  thinking I’m a little too thin.

"Oh ! They would love you , if you were chubbier ,"  she says.

I look down, dejected.

I’m on the verge of running away from there, when she catches hold of me.

She makes me sit still, and gets me some warm water, to soothe my nerves.

As I drink it, she  gets ready to prepare dinner and dessert, eyeing me smugly.

Poor me !! :-(

This woman,  I tell you !!!

 

She sure knows, how to puff up raisins for the cake ! :-)

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Linking this to A toZ 2014 and the Ultimate Blogging Challenge.

 

AMHA !!

Aah ! Is there anything in the world around , that doesn’t inspire us in some way ? I guess not. From the tiny ant to the mighty elephant, from the shaking leaf to the large tree, inspiration comes in all possible ways. Most of the time we aren’t aware of it, but the truth is that our subconscious learns a lot from the world around, and that influences our lives in many ways. We all have something to learn from each other, the hows and how nots, the whys and why nots of life.

When the Write Tribe challenged us to tell an inspirational story, I thought of many people I knew, who could be spoken about. And I came to rest at the thought of one person.

I belong to Thrissur, the perfect centre of Kerala. In this small city built around a 65 Acre hillock, lives a strong willed woman, a teacher, who has made and continues to make a big difference in the lives of the mentally challenged.

Meet Dr Bhanumathi, Professor of Zoology, Sree Kerala Varma College, Thrissur  - the founder of AMHA ; Association for Mentally Handicapped Adults.

Born as the youngest child to an affluent farmer-father, Dr Bhanumathi was well aware from very early that she had to take care of her mentally challenged siblings once she grew up. Her mother took care of them when they were young, and the young Bhanumathi knew that one day she will have to take over the responsibility from her mother. She was also aware that even though her family could afford to employ a help to take care of her brothers, many families couldn’t do that because of financial, emotional and social constraints. So, she had decided early in her life that she would start a home for the mentally challenged people, once she gained financial independence.

The triggering point was, however, personally painful for her. One of her mentally challenged brothers died on her lap, after being rejected by a doctor who seemed to think that he didn’t deserve human consideration because he was mentally challenged. This hurt Bhanumathi and strengthened her resolve , which ultimately resulted in her founding AMHA in 1997.

She began the institution as a school  with just 3 students, and as word spread around, it increased to 18.

None of the initial crunches like lack of support or funds affected her strong purpose of mind, and things started getting better in some time when the newspapers and television channels started showcasing her efforts. Slowly, AMHA started gaining strong ground in the society.

From a small classroom with 3 students, AMHA has grown into a Charitable organisation, with 55 mentally challenged students getting help, love, care, recognition and on-hands work experience. Dr Bhanumathi decided against having her own children, treating every single child who came to AMHA as her own. Her brothers are also among the inmates of AMHA.

Even though AMHA functions at my hometown, I hadn’t heard of AMHA till I reached college. I knew Dr Bhanumathi as a teacher in one of the best colleges in our town ( though I was a student in another best college :D :D ) but more knowledge about AMHA came later.

Since then, she’s inspired me, to believe that nothing is impossible  and in the big wide world, every single human being deserves to be treated with equal respect, love and care.

Give love in plenty, and you’ll receive it back in abundance, so that you can give more !

Gulf News , the leading daily in UAE highlighted her and AMHA in 2010. Read the full story here.

And yes, AMHA is on Facebook, too !!

I wish her all success in the years to come :-)

   

That’s the story for the day, hope you found it as inspiring as I did.

Stay blessed !

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The Write Tribe Festival of Words 3 is on ! Join us in this wonderful journey through words !!

Linking this to Day 5 , the challenge being sharing an inspiring story.

Read some wonderful entries here.

Her Beauty.....

It is wonderful to write in response to the Wednesday Prompt at Write Tribe, which is a beautiful blogging community .

The 5th Wednesday Prompt for 2014, I / She looked most beautiful,  comes from Shiva Kapoor, whose word graffiti can be found at  Where the mind is without fear  :)

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Every time I looked at her, she filled me with awe. She was a very strong lady, and the years of struggle to live hadn’t pulled her heart down, though she had been bestowed with unwelcome physical difficulties.

Yet, she was very determined.

I had always seen her dressed in white. A flowing white sari, carelessly draped over her well-built body, never fastened on the shoulders with a pin , a watch with a golden strap adorning her right hand, a small chain of rudraksha beads around her neck. And an occasional smear of chandanam or vibhuthi on her broad forehead. That was all what she was decked up with.

“Why doesn’t she wear anything colourful, Amma ?”, I once asked my mother when I was very young.

“She’s been like that ever since his  death,” my mother replied. “I’ve seen her as a young woman too, she had knee-length hair that she usually tied in a neat braid. She was very beautiful, though she usually wore simple cotton sarees. But ever since he passed away, she’s been like this,” she said, and I saw her eyes were moist.

“She’s beautiful even now, Amma”, I consoled her.

Years passed by, and we lived through many seasons.

As the child in me blossomed into a woman, she was there, troubled by her share of ailments, but always being the undefeated warrior.

She never ceased to amaze me . The radiance of her will power , the life’s stories that she shared with me, and the lessons she tried to instill in my mind, all captivated me no ends.

Sometimes, she told me, that she saw so much of herself in me, which made me proud and thankful to her.

She grew tired as the years whizzed  by and as she got admitted in the hospital one morning, we all sensed the inevitable.

I spent time with her, cheerfully talking to her and trying to absorb all the wisdom I could.

At night, my mother sat with her, as she breathed from the oxygen mask that the hospital provided.

One evening, when my mother came to the hospital with dinner and asked me to go home for the night, she was asleep. I wanted to wish her before I left, but it wasn’t proper for me to wake her up.

The next morning, she was gone.

Yes, my grandma left us, just like that, without even a good bye to me, her favourite granddaughter.

Or was I the one who was wrong ? Shouldn’t I have kissed her a good bye the previous evening ? My mistake, isn’t it ?

I went to the hospital to take her home, so that we could send her on the final journey of life.

As they wheeled her out on a stretcher and pushed it inside the ambulance, I looked at the peaceful pallor on her face.

Yet, my tears stayed away.

At home, my mother wasn’t able to talk, she was still trying to assimilate this significant loss ; so the onus of  readying her for the final journey fell on me.

I lifted her up slowly, and draped her ever-favourite white sari around her, very carefully, yet as carelessly as she used to do it herself.

I smeared some chandanam on her broad forehead.

My mother joined me ,to have one final look at her, before she went to the land of no-return.

That was when my tears broke the barricades and flowed out in a sudden rush.

She lay there, in a peaceful sleep, as I looked at her through a curtain of tears.

She looked the most beautiful to me, then.

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 Rudraksha - literally ,' Shiva's eyes'; refers to the seeds of an evergreen tree, used as prayer beads in Hinduism.
Chandanam - sacred sandal paste from a temple
Vibhuthi - sacred ash from a temple.
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The girl called Kaumudi !! - UBC Post 3

Another  October 2^nd has whizzed past as usual.

Most of the Indians remembered Gandhiji on this day – the one Indian who made India possible.
The half-naked fakir ( as addressed by Winston Churchill ), who proved to the world the glorious path of Non-Violence.
Mahatma. The Great Soul.

Some of us remembered another great Indian soul, who shares his Birthday with the Mahatma.
The second Prime Minister of India, the national hero under whose premiership India tasted victory in the Indo-Pak War of 1965.
The staunch Gandhian-turned-Nehruvian Socialist, who exhorted the country to ‘ Hail the Soldier, Hail the Farmer’ ( Jai Jawan Jai Kissan) as the life of India.
Lal Bahadur 'Shastri'.

Much has been written and spoken about both of them.

This post is not about them.

It is about a 16-year old girl from the village of Vayakkara, in Kannur ( ‘Cannanore’ being the official name being used by the Indian Railways) , in Kerala.
Her story dates back to the 1934.
This incident takes place at Vatakara , which is at present a part of Calicut in Kerala.
Gandhiji has been working on the upliftment of the so-called untouchables, who, he insists, should be called ‘Harijans’.
He wants to raise funds for the activities , and also create awareness among the people about the sinful act of untouchability.
He reaches Vatakara as a part of his campaign to address a meeting there.
He talks to the crowd that has gathered, about his cause in general and the Harijan Sahaya Samithi for which he is raising funds.
His speech moves the masses and once he finishes his speech, the people approach him one by one to donate whatever little money or jewels they have for his cause.
That’s when Kaumudi walks up to him.
As the Mahatma looks curiously at the 16-year old, she removes all the gold ornaments she’s wearing and hands it over to him.
He asks her if her parents have permitted her to do this, and her father who is present there, ratifies her action.
He then says that she’s not to get her ornaments replaced, to which she readily agrees.

He asks her again, “  Then what will you do if you give me all this” ?
She replies, “ I will wait till someone comes to marry me and not my gold.”
The Mahatma then voices a “what if no such person comes”, to which she says, “ I wouldn’t marry”.

He gives her his autograph, “ Tumhara tyag hi tumhara bhushan hoga” ! ( Your sacrifice will be your best ornament! )

He blesses her, and appreciates her faith on the ideology.
Later, he writes in his Journal, an article titled ‘Kaumudi’s Renunciation’.

From that 16 year old girl, Kaumudi grows up to become the first Hindi teacher of Malabar and retires after a successful teaching career in 1972. People affectionately call her, Kaumudi teacher :-)

The camera now zooms to the year 2009.
This is a humble home in Kadachira town in Kannur, where Kaumudi has been staying with her brother for the past few years, .
This is the  4^th of August.
Just 10 days before the nation turns 62, Kaumudi breathes her last.
True to her word to the Mahatma, she’s not married.



I remember her, as yet another Gandhi Jayanthi goes by.

Hats off to you, Kaumudi teacher !
You are really kaumudi  ( the word means Moon light ! ) to many of us !!


* Image courtesy - Google.
* That part of the conversation where she speaks about her marriage is from what I heard on her interview some years before her death. She said that when the interviewer asked her the reason behind her staying unmarried.