A small poem that I wrote for a past post and that was rediscovered now.
The day was dry, moments wary,
and then there was the kiss.
The sun shone and clouds gone,
and there was the Spring
Butterflies had come, birds sang
and then there was the KISS.
I wanted to do something special for her birthday, I kept thinking what to do, I went over several ideas and almost all were amazingly unpractical and then I stumbled upon this ad by +Le Royal Méridien Chennai
, They were offering this wonderful couples dinner and It struck me that all I had to do was add my own spin into it and I was done.
I had the perfect gift for her, on her birthday.
I am not telling that I was confident, My poor friend +Parvathi S
would of all people know what I was going through. I was getting cold feet every now and then and she had to deal with that. Poor soul! not just that she had to tag along to pic all the stuff I needed to make this happen.
So when we went there they had this nice, cosy table ready for us and though you cant see there really was a fabulous megaphone player, playing along to the whole time.
I knew she really was onboard all this while and I knew she was ecstatic from the moment the waiter handed over her a bouquet of the most beautiful assortment of roses and I knew this was the best moment.
I did kind of like the idea of giving the birthday cake a twist. The cake came in just as I was getting down on the knee. I really don’t know what are things I uttered then but the cake gave the insurance, Even if I got my tongue tied up, I wouldn’t miss it with the cake.
Lastly, The thing I have been wanting to do all the while I was writing this article and the person I have been longing to introduce you guys to. +Amrutha T
, the girl I am proposed to and the girl with whom I want to share every second of every day for the rest of my life with. The only girl I found who loves me for what I am and is almost okay with who and what I am, even the crazy parts of mine that make me what I am. The one person who completes me, who make up for my imperfections, the one who is imperfect yet perfect for me.
“It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make a helper suitable for him.” – Genesis 2:18
Under the green trees whose shadows she rested I grew up playing, in the very rain that drenched her I bathed, by the bank of the many rivers that nourished her I learned of heritage and culture. She was the mother that I seldom had, the father that I longed, a friend that I cherish. She was everything that I wanted and she is everything that I am. The life that I lived every second of every hour I lived in her cradle is the life that I ever want to know and wherever in the vast expanse of the globe destiny decides to take me my roots are forever claimed and every moment lived is but an attempt to be back in my mother’s lap.
The spicy scent of the wet land, my grandmother is to say that beautiful scent was mother earth burping with satisfaction after her thirst has been quenched. How beautiful it smelled, like the scent of fresh Thulsi leaves. How beautiful was it too see the dark monsoon clouds come rolling in from the sky, It was said that the clouds had the colour of lord Krishna and just like the little Krishna they brought great joy along with them. My Kerala, My mother was a beautiful sight to see when she was drenched in his blessings. Everywhere there was just the vast expanse of green and from every leaf dripped many a million drops of rain. The trees rained down after the clouds and as a little child, dressed in nothing but a little black tread by waste I would go below the many creepers that grew in our garden and give it a shake. I would squeal with delight as the cold droplets hit my then tender body and I would smile with absolute pleasure. Of course I was too young to remember it then but my lovely grandmother had painted for me such vibrant pictures of my childhood that somehow they seem more part of my memory than a part of her narration. Everytime I think of those moments I feel them, the emotions of the little me rather just a detached memory.
I remember though the many hours I have stood by the many windows, each time a new one and watched the endless rain and I remember being overjoyed at the mere sight of it. To me each drop of rain now is a part of my mother and her endless beauty. They in their watery way tie me down to the land and the land in its muddy way tie me down to the sky and. They together in their symphony tie me down to my mother. There in that adobe of love I started talking root and every monsoon my roots grew just that much larger and deeper and tied me down a little more to the land.
There is not a day I don’t dream of going back to her, I have not been too far from her yet every moment spent away from her is sheer agony and the desire is that much more deeper. My mother had loved me and I have loved her back just as much, the truth is you never realize how much you love them but at the moments you spent away from her. Rain and monsoon are that much deep rooted in me and every one of my memories does have a tinge of it somewhere. Be it the times I stared at the rain from the safety of the local sweet stall clinching to my grandfather’s hands or be it the moments I have immersed myself in the bliss as it fell down over me. Even when I grew up I was in love with the rain and every chance I get to be with her, I took, every excuse I could make to be with her I have made. I love the rain and the land after the rain. I love the land before that rain that is both ominous and sensational. The thunder and the lightning, the cold and freezing breeze that comes just before the rain and then as the drum roll reaches its finale you hear the hear, the sizzle before she comes and rains down on you.
How could I be anything but her beloved son, How could I ever dream of having a mother that is not her, a home that is not hers. I belong there I belong in her lap and I am to be at home curled up in her laps and listening to her wonderful stories and dream of the wonderful world that it draws in my mind. I belong to her both in this life and the next, I came from her and into her wet soil I must return as ash. In her many rivers must I lay my final rest and in her lap I must lie dead the same way I was born into hers. Forever I will be hers, A malayali.