Dreams

The house is old and potholes spray the landscape of the exterior. She can still remember the orange stained smile of the kids that tracked her around. The auto man angrily shouts: ‘You are never satisfied!’ in Tamil. They can see his red eyes in the rearview mirror as he drives towards their house. He murmurs: ‘Sair, those kids only beg because they’re god-forsaken parents give them life but nothing to live on. You shouldn’t give them anything.’ Her father turns around to nod in agreement as he sees his elder child mouth in protest. 

‘This house has a long history. It was built by your grandfather on a piece of land that his older brother sold to satisfy his drinking problem.’ Her uncle pleasantly smiled as he received the reaction expected of a 13-year old listening to the pasts lived by her family. Her aunt came in to set some tea and mixer on the table. ‘My father was a great man.’ At this her aunt intervened: ‘He never spoke.’ Her uncle untied his arms and grimaced at his wife.  ‘He was still a great man.’ This time she smiled at their niece. ‘You have so much to learn.’

The house was large and at one time expanded a large area, but with tightening budgets, a small end piece of the land was sold off. There had been talk for many months that the proctor that had kept many of the town people’s money would run off with it all. This happened exactly as December approached, the rains would not stop as her grandfather’s body paraded towards the outskirts.  All his savings, everything he had saved up as a tea estate quality controller was now drifting into India. The proctor did what he thought was best, sent his wife and children first to Madurai and then to Bangalore. He followed them two weeks later with enough money to last them a lifetime and then some.  

Their house didn’t feel like home. It masked many stories, some happy, some hurtful and some brutal. The shelling had created potholes all over the front of the house. The furniture was unstable; it sometimes creaked at instances that sounded rude. The shutters protested not wanting to close. The house in total was a complete wreck. After her uncle’s family had returned from the displacement of 1995, everything had been ruined or stolen.

The small room, which housed luxshmi, devi, stood in peace as if no one had seen her. ‘The thieves must have believed in God, they didn’t bother taking the statuettes.’ She followed her Uncle around to hear his stories. She stood at every picture and stared at it to encourage the horror it saw to be spoken.  She finally reached the famous photo of the three astronauts. Armstrong, Collins and Aldrin sat in impending success. She stopped her uncle to ask where he had gotten this picture. He looked at the photo, used the corner of his shirt to wipe the photo and then replied: ‘Your father sent away for a picture when he was 18.’ He paused reminiscing those days. ‘Your father had big dreams.’ He stopped and caught his breath. He turned quickly and hid skillfully his tear-laden eyes.

‘The war was there. It was always there. But we had dreams, they kept us from believing the war was everything.’ Her Father’s older brother shifted in his chair. It creaked uncomfortably. Engulfed in solemn tribute to those that also had dreams, she stood up and ran towards the end of the verandah. Her aunt caught her before she leapt onto the dusty yard that bordered the school. ‘Let go of me!’ she screamed. 

‘It isn’t going to change anything for you to be upset.’ Her aunt knew the words that poured out. ‘When is this going to end, when are we going to be able to dream, when can we attain some of those dreams?’ She asked crudely to the sky. ‘You can’t change that your father wasn’t able to do what he wanted, but you can change the future, you can change.’ She smoldered in the hurt, overwhelmed to move anywhere, she stayed steadily on her aunt’s shoulder. She wept until her pain disseminated.

Her father returned to hear his child shutter in hurt.  He took her in his arms and let her tears penetrate his shirt. He allowed for all his daughter’s words to be spoken. He cupped her face and brought it close. ‘You are my dream, kanmani.’ He repeated them again: ‘You are my everything, you becoming something will make me the happiest father in all of Jaffna.’ He smiled. She wiped a tear from her cheek, He kissed her on the brow. He picked up his daughter like she had just been born and took her away.  He laid out a sheet and a pillow and closed the door. Her aunt waited at the door. ‘She is fine.’ He looked at her in dismay: ‘What happened?’ He was surprised to hear his daughter’s cries out onto the street in front of the house. His brother shrugged as he replied that he had told her about the three astronauts and that she had not taken that well. 

‘She has a tender heart. I don’t know why.’ The last of his words veered off into silence.  The three adults walked away from the bedroom door towards things that have to be done. Of course aren’t we the best at walking away from what we don’t understand. A whimpering was heard from inside the doors.

She turned her head away from the threshold of the entrance to the room. Her tears spread into a pool onto the bed sheet under her cheek. She was hurt and she was overwhelmed. Her memory relaying back one event in the past that now she cried about.

It was an afternoon like any other, full of vitality. She had come back from school, full of dreams that day. She wanted to be an architect, no wait, a teacher, well maybe an astronaut. Dreams are so wonderful she thought. She could dream to be anything and magically she could become that. A smile plastered on her face, she entered her building, rode the elevator to the 25^th floor and opened the door to her home. This was her daily routine, to come home alone and wait for her parents and younger brother. An untimely knock disturbed the sounds of cartoons on the television. She got up and as instructed asked: ‘who is this?’.  A familiar voice answered back. ‘Its me Ragu mama, can you open the door.’ The familiarity of the voice felt safe but just to do as instructed she opened the door carefully with the chain. She opened the door slightly to a young man with a receding hairline and bold smile.

This was her father’s cousin and in recent months with the breaking up of his marriage and his custodial rights being limited, he spent some evenings with her parents. ‘Ragu mama, come sit. Amma and appa haven’t come yet.’

He looked tired, his eyes bloodshot, but he was pleasant as always. He sat where she instructed him to sit. She returned with a glass of orange juice. She handed the glass to him: ‘Ah, You are becoming a wonderful hostess. Amma must be very proud.’

She smiled sitting adjacent to him. He drank the orange juice in one gulp. ‘So when will amma come?’ She responded looking at the clock on the wall. ‘ I think around 6.’

‘Maybe we should wait to see them come home, by the window.’ He stood up to walk towards the window. He allowed his arms to rest on the sill and then turned around to see her walk up next to him.  He turned back towards the window. She stared too into the outskirts of the fading light.

She felt disgusted when she realized what had happened: His hands touching places that should not be touched. She was cheated out of her innocence and in the safety of her home, her molestation felt like it was the worst dream one could have.

Now 3 years older, her eyes hurt as she relayed how much her trust had been taken for granted. She relived this experience for many years to come. She rocked herself to sleep and then finally fell asleep.

A silent lull fell over the room as her father entered the room. Her eyes moved and a smile formed. Her father looked at her, smiled: ‘She must be having a sweet dream.’

THE END.

Tales of The Little Star

At the edge of the Universe there hung a star in the sky. It felt so lonely sitting there, watching the sun rise and shine and make the world brighter for everyone on Earth. The star was sad. It wondered when everyone would be happy to see her.

One day on its daily rounds around a world, it stopped at a coffee shop. Everyone in the coffee shop was so happy to see the star. The star was delighted to have to walk in and have such an extravagant applause; it was never in the limelight. The patrons of the coffee shop, Mr. Saturn, and Mr. Jupiter waved at the little star. They said hello and asked how she was doing? The little star was amazed; no one ever gave it attention. But today was different. The coffee shop owner decided to celebrate the star, they all cheered: “Hip Hip Hoorah, the little star at the north end.” The star was in tears. It came time for all the patrons to make speeches about the little star. Mr. Saturn stood up and spoke first: “Little star, you may be small but you are wonderful, you provide light to so many of us, especially Mr. Jupiter.” Everyone chuckled at this. The star unsure of the joke, smiled. He continued: “Little star, you may not be as bright as the sun.” At this the little star grew a little sad. “But you are the only one that provides us with direction. You and only you know the way around the universe, pointing always to the North. And you are the brightest star in that direction, without you the planets would not know in what direction to follow the sun.” The little star was very thrilled to hear this. The coffee shop doors opened and the Sun walked in. He was bright and beautiful but on seeing the little star he quieted down. He came up sheepishly and spoke his feelings: “I always wanted to tell you that without you Little star, I wouldn’t know in which direction to rise. You are the reason everyone on Earth is happy. I only play the part but you direct us.” On hearing all the praise, the little star was again in tears. The little star that never speaks, spoke to the crowd; “Thank you, Thank you, I always thought I was a nobody, that no one cared but I realize that in our daily duties of being planets or stars, we forget how important it is to thank everyone and what an important job or role you play. Everyone is always grateful, and we all belong to a team. If one of us sits out, we wouldn’t be able to make the people of Earth happy.”

The people of Earth heard a faint applause and then a happy cheer: “Hip Hip Hoorah, the little star at the north end.”

Sometimes when we are busy, we forget what other people mean to us. Its important to say it, and just as important is to believe that you are important to other people too. This is the morale of the story.

To Dearest Sinthu, My little star.

Where else but here

Where else but with you would I find happiness

Where else but with you would I find anbu

Where else but with you would I find tales to tell

Where else but with you would I think to make faces

Where else but with you would I laugh until it hurt

Where else but with you would I think to wander down memory lane

Where else but with you would I smile, thinking of these very lines

Where else would here be, but with you?

To Shoba, for withstanding the perfect storm: me

events

His story begins, quite silently, born amongst three, though the youngest, his sole earning become the family’s dinner. He craves a better future, going to Colombo, writing his Bookkeeping exams, but since his father’s death, these hopes are only that, hope, deeds do not do what undreamt dreams see. He becomes older and a woman is arranged for him, in the wake of wars. Her dowry is important. Her life entangled with this man, new but also familiar. She agrees, for the sake of others, to marry and go live with the others, to become their beacon of light. The dowry is put to good use, invested in a passport and a suitcase. He is sent off to a faraway place, called Germany. He has to land in three different transits, eat with knives and spoons and by god, a utensil called the fork. His heart is with his unborn child, left hastily with this woman, familiar and yet new.

There is a certainty in newness, it smells different, is different, but whether you like or dislike it, that property is not attached to newness. A new child born, she puts her in a cradle made of an old sari, so her head is round and thick of black hair, so the elders say. Her father is not present when she is born, the army helping her mother to the hospital, leaving her absently at the entrance, telling her the door is not far from here. She is in labour and this pain is unlike anything, the nurses fear she will topple from the stretcher, lay a sheet for on the floor to roll on. They keep vigil, the unborn child’s grandmother prays. She is scared, her son is not here.

Oldness like her grandmother, smells good. It feels good, like her mother’s old saris, hung around her so her head is round and her hair is thick. Her pictures are sent, yet her father changes addresses frequently, never quite make it to its destination. Lost in journey, she may look back at this, one day grasping her framed degree as an ominous sign of her future. They speak often, her parents, her mother asking when she will see him again. Her father replies that the time will come.

Time comes, they are shipped, human cargo, he meets his daughter, does not kiss this new child. He is afraid to touch her, her fragility scares him. This child, he was not present for is now the centre of his life. His beacon of light. She wonders now, her father’s grateful eyes forget the details. Smoke screened behind other duties, he becomes quiet, distant, unsure as to what to do and worst of all, what to say. 

She beckons for words, but only some come.

“Absolute Trust in the Goodness of the Earth”

There are times we as individuals feel that we should really get up and be a part of history. If you’re American maybe it was the recent, well publicized elections. Well not my cup of tea, no I am a scientist, I live for the little pushes towards the future. 

I fell in love. Yes in love. With a planet and fortunately it came into full view a few years ago. A Mars sighting was to happen and we were lucky enough to have clear skies and an absolute view. I was elated. This feeling, I can’t even describe, enveloped me. I was about to meet the rockstar of the universe. 

So me being this person with nothing better to do than come home after school, wrangle my brothers, tell them how could they miss the most important moment of their lifetimes. Each of them looked at me, across the room at each other and burst out in a full laughter. If provicial law did not stop me I would have glued their mouths shut. Ergh! brothers! But my parents forced them to come with me, as protection. Apparently there’s a saying: something along the lines of even if he is younger, he is a man. Obvious as it is, it should just stay a saying.

But we set out towards the Science Centre, in shorts and t-shirts, I was excited! On the grounds they had games, giveaways and lots of experiments, to pass the time before night would befall. My favourite was of course the free mars bars, I took as many as my hands could take. Finally the wait ceased, the veil fell and the actors came out. The stars and the waning moon, white and crisp. And then the main player of this dramatical production that occurred every few centuries. Mars looked beautiful, red and distant, it rose magnificantly to a position high in the sky. We lined up straight to look through ametuer telescopes, these lines grew exponentially. It took us almost an hour to make it to the front. I had taken my mediocre 24 roller to take pictures. Of course it was nearly impossible. I asked the telescope man, if I could take a picture and he replied it would not look any good. I heard him but I didn’t listen, pressed the button slumped over the telescope. The night got cool very quickly and my parents had come looking for us, waiting at the outskrits of the action with jackets. They frowned at us for taking so long. It was worth the wait, I replied. And looked endearingly at my camera, it will be worth the wait.

Two weeks later, the film developed, my father came home upset. He told me that half the negatives were developed to reveal completely black prints. He looked at me, how many pictures did you take at that Mars thing?. I lied, none. I was disappointed. But I think we all learn these things at one point in time or another. That no matter the space, the place, no matter the time or the people, no the matter the recording, picture or prose, its always the way you felt. That light-hearted I was part of history, that really matters.

I still search for that feeling, what memories bring are only faint and hasty.

“The purest among us, the darkest bean, the greenest leaf.”

I have often wondered. Wandering in my memories, breathing in my past, asking for directions. I have thought that losing oneself is the best way to find others. This much of this memory I remember:

It was a hot and sticky day, a day in july perhaps. Some relatives had just come into town and we were showing them this city, and decided to step into a large mall. Of course, we were annoying kids, like kids can be. The four of us running around was too much for  the four adults to handle. One in Sears, the other splashing water onto themselves, one loudly asking where the ducks were going. It was bound to happen.

One finally got lost. It had to be my brother. We looked in all the places we had been to within the mall. We asked around. Anxiety and fear slowly creeping in, filling up the spaces my mother would usually use to breathe with. Her second child, her only son, this was horrific.

How would you explain to the family that you lost a child, with four adults watching over the place? 

But no one would need to answer that question. We found him, after informing the security. They told us he had gone to a restaurant and conveniently, he tells them that he is lost. Smart kid, I wished I had gotten lost, the frenzy of it all, he was right under our noses eating spaghetti and strawberries. They had called home a few times, thinking we had gone home, he remembered that much, no not names but numbers. 

That day I made a pact, if I were ever to loose myself I would do it in a place that had good food.

“Love is what makes you smile when you are tired.”

Terri, aged 4, simply put it, well.

This story is quite simple too. It starts with a mother. My mother, she like most, is quite capable. She does many things that many woman don’t try, citing their gender as a reason. I think she throws out that reasoning when she empties the garbage bin. I have learnt this trait well, nurture obviously being favoured here. 

I am fond of her toughness, her capability, her unceasing love. This one day was clearly shown to me. It was my birthday, a few years ago, a few friends had decided to throw a small party and I had gone. Even when 90% of the population didn’t have cellphones, I was clearly lucky (or unlucky) enough to be in possession of one. I had to call at three times that evening, to make sure that I was safe, once when I got to the place, during and of course once when things were over so my father could come pick me up. 

I hated this. All of it, whatever human could sustain restraint. Not me. But clearly I also was impeccable at not noticing my ringtone. I probably missed at least 12 calls that night. Each at 3 minute intervals. Finally I called back, telling, not asking, my father to come pick me up. I was so irritated. Hissing out each response my father asked during the car ride home. To take the cake (no pun intended), my mother also joined in,  calling throughout the ride, asking me where we were. I was tired, these two did not understand the meaning of letting go, letting me grow up. The calls successively came at 2 minute intervals, following us all the way up the elevator of the building, through the hallway, at the front door.

I was about to spray a lecture of hatred, include the fact that my friends had never seen this type of as, Natalie put it: “love”, where the parents are obsessively controlling their daughter’s life. I was about to throw a fit. I was about to…

But I didn’t. What waited inside chilled me to the bone. Three people stood, my mother, brother and my other brother (my brother’s friend),  ”HAPPPY BIRTHDAY” they screamed. I stood in absolute shock. A cake in hand, streamers and balloons everywhere, I hadn’t noticed that I was being celebrated.

I wanted to keel over, vomit out all my thoughts and the mean words, but I couldn’t.

It was 11:00 at night and I was tired. And I smiled. And noticed what love could make you do.

“Where do birds go to die?”

Childhood stories are always welcomed with open arms specifically those with a tenacity to outlast time. This one does, one of my own. So I tried to match it up with a verse from a novel I dearly love.

With lives being much busier now that we had entered sixth grade, we usually ate lunch quietly and quickly. But today was different, us three, the three of us wanted enjoy the fading foliage and cooling weather; we wanted to eat outside. The three of us decided this but of course, being 12 year-old girls, myself and Aisha* fought over the position of being the one to sit in the middle. This position most coveted amongst us because both friend’s stories could be heard equally. And therefore this was of course the best spot.

Regardless, Aisha and I thought it through and argued that this time it should be Sara’s* turn because she had not partaken in the war of words and abstained with such dignity. The queen of good behaviour. ‘You should sit!’ we exclaimed. We found a picnic table to hold our appetites, and so we sat. We spoke about the geometry homework and then a few minutes later…Polp!

We all looked up to see a large seagull incline further into the blue skies. On Sara’s hijab there was a good size bird doo-doo, white and thick.

We all laughed and couldn’t help but stare with the wide eyes. Needless to say, no one fought over the middle position after that.

*Real names were not used, in love for these two, who I still know and love more than I did in the 6th grade.

imprints of my heart

you have left

an astounding imprint on me,

like the fall leaves that stamp out their fading presence on my sidewalk

like the graffiti that has not been removed properly

like the tea stain, spilled on to me

like the faint smell of summer on clipped grass

like the touch of your hands on my palm

like the wind, it too whistling through joyous wind chimes

you astound me,

your imprint left behind on me

yet.

if you are food
I have yet to eat
if you are light
I have yet to see
if you are words
I have yet to speak
if you are lost
I have yet to be found