Between you and me

(Image courtesy: Tumblr)

All these years, without any form of communication from her and yet, here it was. Her book, in my hands. I fingered the spine lovingly, caressing it as I used to caress her cheek. Between you and me by Aanya, the cover proclaimed proudly. I smiled. 

I knew that the book was a secret dream which she cherished in her heart even then. One that scared and fascinated her at the same time. Something that she revealed to me and only me, when her confidence went for a toss.

Aanya, a whiff of love, a lot of confusions, plenty of things still left unsaid. Will her book hold any answers for me? Was it her way of letting me know, what she couldn't tell me those years ago? It all seemed ages back, a different lifetime when love was all that we needed. Love, the only thing that diffused my life into hers. Like spilled paints of yellow and red which formed orange, it was difficult to distinguish where one ended and the other began.

The author photograph showed a confident young woman smiling back at me. She looked different, a layer of sophistication now shrouded her, but the look in her eyes was the same. The same sparkle that I fell for. An innocent twinkle. Yet, holding a lot of secrets in its depths. Not daring to reveal the woman beneath.

Did she think of me? Did she ever miss me? A lot of questions raised through my tumultuous mind. But the most scariest one of all was what I had been avoiding all these years, did she ever love me?

I grabbed a cup of hot coffee and a freshly baked cream roll and sat back in my bed with her book. Would I ever find my answers in here? I lay back on my bed which was still warm and began to read the first page.

Love comes to us when we least expect it. It takes us in a sweep, holding us in its clutches and refusing to let go. Love is like a hurricane, it destructs. It is also like a rainbow, towards the end of a heavy downpour. For me, love is the scent of coffee and freshly baked bread. Love is the scent of his woody aftershave that I inhale when he holds me close. Love is his gentle caress and the crazy things he did for me. It gave me a new world and left a seamless void when it was snatched away too soon. Love is him. And only him - Aanya. 

I wiped away a tear which had begun to form at the corner of my eye and lay back to read the rest of what she had to say. It was going to be a long morning.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

Also, linking it to Day 6 of the Ultimate Blog Challenge for July 2014 and NaBloPoMo. 

Movie review- Bangalore Days

(Images courtesy: Google)

Having heard all the raving reviews, the husband and I went to watch Bangalore Days yesterday with high expectations. And boy, am I glad that we took the decision to watch it on the same day that the movie released here in Dubai! It was a fun, bubbly movie that moves at a fast pace and leaves you wanting for more. 

Bangalore Days is a 2014 drama-comedy Malayalam movie, written and directed by Anjali Menon, which talks of the wonderful bond shared by three cousins- Kuttan (Nivin Pauly), Divya (Nazriya Nazim) and Arjun (Dulquer Salmaan). Since childhood, they have shared a special friendship and though they are taken their seperate ways as they grew older, Divya's marriage to Das (Fahadh Faasil) brings all three of them together once again. 

Kuttan is a software engineer working in Bangalore. He represents the face of many Indian students who are forced to take engineering though his passion lies elsewhere. He is portrayed as the homesick son who constantly craves for the fresh air and life found only at his home- Kerala and also likes to dabble in poetry. Divya is the typical young girl who immediately after completing her degree is forced into an arranged marriage due to the pressure from her parents. Though she has dreams of making it big in the future, she compromises and moves to Bangalore with her new husband. Arjun is a true gypsy, who moves around from place to place doing all the odd jobs, whose passion is bike riding and he too, moves to Bangalore to be near his cousins. 

Their crazy and huge family, filled with a lot of remarkable characters are also entertaining and will leave a smile or two on your face. Be it Divya's narrow minded parents or Kuttan's striving-for-greener-pastures Mom and his subdued Dad. 

The movie gives importance to the special relationship that these three cousins share, understanding each other as only cousins can. The city, Bangalore plays an important role as the movie's name indicates, as it is a childhood dream for the three to have a blast in this city of dreams. It also talks about the other characters that enter their lives, be it the workaholic husband Das, the beautiful air hostess Meenakshi or the lively RJ Sarah. Each one has done justice to their roles and the moves along at an interesting pace the entire two and a half hours. 

This is the perfect movie for a weekend that can be enjoyed with your friends and family while munching on popcorn. The only place which I felt could be avoided was the bit dramatic portion towards the end, which seemed a bit out of reality as compared to the rest of the movie (not giving it away here in case you decide to see it!). Also, personally, I felt that Nazriya's dramatics could have been toned down as it felt a bit out of place, compared to the rest of the cast. 

My favorite character from the movie is, undoubtedly, the RJ Sarah (Parvathy) who wins all hearts when you leave the theater. Arjun is drawn to the positive vibes that radiates through her morning radio show. However, he is shocked to see a woman in a wheel chair when he goes to visit his favorite radio jockey. The special friendship between them, which soon blossoms into love, leaves you with a warm fuzzy feeling in your heart that makes you wish that their story has a happy ending, no matter what. 

Bottom line- a must watch! I would definitely give this one a four point five stars on five. Do watch it, I heard it releases with subtitles everywhere, so that even those who can't follow the language can watch it as well! Hats off to Anjali Menon and the entire crew for bringing out such a lovely movie with a lot of goodness in it. Give it a try, if you haven't already. You won't be disappointed, trust me. 

This post is written for Day 5 of the Ultimate Blog Challenge for July 2014 and NaBloPoMo. 

Here lived a King

(Image copyright: Claire Fuller)

She sat in the gentle morning sunlight sketching the statue. The King stood tall, his mighty crown on the level of the tops of trees that guarded him. Passersby did not give a second glance to this magnificent structure. Nor did anyone bother about the story behind it. 

She squinted her eyes, trying to commit to canvas the detailing that that adorned his face. A look of arrogance and pride, but she felt that there was a heart of gold beneath all that tough facade. 

The statue showed years of neglect, the paint reeling away and clumps of moss now adorning it. But her canvas said a different story, of an illustrious king and his faithful disciples, as she breathed life into it. 

This post is written for Friday Fictioneers- 4th July for the above photo prompt. 

Also, linking it to Day 4 of the Ultimate Blog Challenge for July 2014 and NaBloPoMo. 

Over an ice cream cone

(Image courtesy: Google)

The chocolate ice cream dripped from Prema's waffle cone over her chin and onto her polka dotted blue dress, staining it in the process. Amma would scold her now. The dress was bought only last month by her Uncle as a gift when he came from America. A look of worry crossed her eyes, which was soon forgotten with the task of consuming the delicious ice cream which had started melting in the scorching heat and pooling over her right hand now.

Prema. She was aptly named, her parents were fond of reminding her over and over again. She was a gift of love. A tiny miracle that had arrived when her parents had lost all hope of ever having a child to call their own. They had been married for five years after which she had made her appearance in the form of a bundle wrapped in the palest of pink. With the tiniest of fingers and toes, as her Achan was fond of telling. 

Was she smaller than Hannah, her favorite doll, she liked to ask him over and over again. 

And he would always smile and reply, you were so tiny that I was afraid to hold you. What if I dropped you by mistake? 

But seeing her tearful eyes, he would scoop her up and tickle her. The worry forgotten.

But today, sitting in this hallway alone, nibbling on her ice cream cone as the sun threatened to dribble it on the dirty floor, thoughts of all other things were far from her mind. She hated gobbling it up in one go, like how her friend Rishi was fond of. Prema wanted to relish the taste, committing it to memory as her parents wouldn't ever buy her another one in the near future lest she catch a cough or infection.

Ice creams were for special occasions, Achan was fond of reminding her. Today, must be special, she thought happily. Prema wanted to have lunch from outside this afternoon, probably in one of those fancy restaurants her parents took her to sometimes. Restaurants where sophisticated people with their beautiful clothes and shining jewelry frequented. She was fascinated with watching them. The way they looked like they never spilled food on their clothes and always had a smile plastered on their faces. Either that or the way they carried around their mobile phones and talked on it all the time. Like their phones were as delicate as their newborn babies who slept off in the prams. Like her parents.

The ice cream cone was finished, leaving her face and hands a sticky mess. She tried to rub off some off it with the hem of her dress, before her mother came and saw the brown stains on her. Such a crowded place, this hallway. People scurrying about busily. What if her parents forgot where they had left her!  Her mind panicked, without having the distraction of the ice cream to keep it occupied.

She heaved a sigh of relief when she saw the familiar peacock blue saree that her mother had worn today. How pretty she looked, her Amma. With her bouncy hair and flawless skin. She was followed by her father. Her tall, handsome Achan, who loved throwing her up in the air and catching her in his big firm hands. Of how he loved to hear her giggle when she was halfway in the air. Cushioning her fall with his hands and kissing her hair when she was back in them. Achan's princess, that's what he called her. She beamed on seeing him.

Her mother clasped her hands tightly around Prema's and led her away. But wait, why is Achan not coming? And why is he looking at her sadly? Her Amma seemed impatient and in a bad temper. She could tell that by the way her nose flared and the way she gripped Prema's hand. The way the folds between her eyebrows creased whenever she fought with her father.

She turned her head back to look at her Achan one last time, before her mother led her back to the car. The last she remembered was his hand that was raised in a half wave, but the image remained incomplete as the car sped away. 

This post is written for Day 3 of the Ultimate Blog Challenge for July 2014 and NaBloPoMo. 

An enigma called Kamala

(Images courtesy: Google)

This afternoon, I started reading 'A Childhood in Malabar- A Memoir' by Kamala Das and it struck me that today's post should be on her. Reading her words in my room in a scorching summer, her words transported me back home. I could feel the rain on my face. I could her the tinkle of her bangles when she was a child. In her words, I could see the mysterious Korathi with her sick parrot who came to read her hand. I could see the aged Nalapat house, its vadakkini and thekkini.

I have been in awe of all her works which I have discovered only during the past year or so and have been devouring her books ever since. There are certain books which makes sense to you during a particular period of time. Had I read her books earlier, perhaps, I would not have fallen as much in love with them as I do now. She came into my life at the right time and I have been in love with her words ever since.

What a woman! She wrote from her heart, not caring what anyone would think of it. And perhaps, that is why you can relate to her writings with so much honesty. Kamala Das has quickly turned into one of my favorite authors. Hailing from Kerala, most of her stories and poems are set in the backdrop which I was born and brought up in. She easily strikes a chord in the heart of her readers.

Kamala Das was a woman who lived life on her own terms, be it the literary one or her controversial, personal one. Hailing from a small village in Kerala, she was popularly known as Madhavikutty, for her works in Malayalam. She attracted the scorn and hatred of many for her bold and sensuous writing about love and lust. The way she openly wrote about desire and the needs of a woman sent sparks flying.

Married off at a tender young age of fifteen, she found her passion for writing early in life. Her father was an editor of a popular Malayalam daily called Mathrubhumi and her mother was a famous Malayali poetess. Her childhood was spent largely in Calcutta and Kerala, the influence of both which are to be seen in her writings. 

Ever since I discovered her books, I have been trying to get my hands on as many as possible. My Story is an autobiographical work which raised many eyebrows for its controversial content. But my personal favorite of the ones I have read so far is Wages of Love is a compilation of many of her articles, short stories, poems and plays. Neypayasam is a gem of a short story which talks about the plight of a father who comes home to his three young sons after his wife's death. This story will make sure you shed a tear or two. It is a story which moved me so much that it still remains close to my heart.

Having born to the Nalapat family and of a Nair origin, her conversion to Islam at the age of sixty five and adopting the name Kamala Surayya again put her into scrutiny in the eyes of public. Her death in 2009 at the age of seventy five was a huge loss to the literary world.

Kamala Das was an enigma, a mystery perhaps even to herself. Her words would stay with you beyond the pages. A writer whom I always go back to, for inspiration. And today, as I write this, I wonder if there would ever be another writer like her. One who would write with an honesty and passion as only she could. Somewhere deep inside, I know that the space she left behind can never be replaced. And I wish...

This post is written for Day 2 of the Ultimate Blog Challenge for July 2014 and NaBloPoMo. 

Garden of love

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She took to gardening when she was twenty, the age when she got her heart broken for the first time. Though she grew vegetables and flowers as a means of distraction from her non existent social life, it soon grew into a hobby. Something that she found joy in, be it the first tiny rose bud that bloomed during spring or the small strawberry that changed from pale green to a rich red as it grew. She tended for the plants gently, pouring all her heart's love and passion into them.

The garden flourished, filled with the fragrance of honeysuckle and lavender that surrounded it. This was her pride, her reason to show off the world that she had indeed, carved a niche in it.

She installed a swinging bench in the midst of those reds, pinks, blues and greens, where she would sit at the end of a long day and read those letters that had started coming in. Letters from a stranger who always signed off with a sketch of a different flower each time, depending on the one that caught his fancy that moment. She started looking forward to the letters now. Writing a reply and leaving it at the end of the garden from where it would promptly disappear the next morning. 

They discussed their passion for gardening, the secret ways to keep off unwanted intruders from attacking her beloved plants, his favorite flowers- orchids. The letters grew in length as time went by, but never did he ask to see her. She was hurt, initially. Was she not pretty enough? He must have sensed it through her words as he reassured her that it was not her, but him. 

Years went by, the young girl was now a confident woman. Whose calloused hands reminded her of the strength that she was gifted with. Not any more was she bothered by what others thought of her.

On the night of her thirtieth birthday, he finally agreed to meet her. The cake she baked was ready. Frosted with the richest cream and topped with homegrown cherries. The moonlight shone through her garden, playing with the shadows among the blossoms. The wine was chilled and placed in an ice bucket near the swing. They would have their first drink in the middle of her plants, that had witnessed her heart break, the healing and slowly, a love that she had come to yearn over the years. 

She heard a husky male voice clearing his throat and slowly turned around. The hair that escaped from her band danced like tendrils in the gentle breeze. She looked at the man standing before her, a shy look on his face. The man that had won her heart through his letters. The man whose limp on his left leg made him self conscious in the company of people who would stare. She took his hand as they went and sat on the swing, the limp on his leg unnoticed by her. 

This post is written as part of the Ultimate Blog Challenge for July 2014 and NaBloPoMo, where a new post shall be written on every day through the month of July 2014, for Day 1. Fingers Crossed!

Beneath the tree

(Image copyright: Madison Woods)

The banyan tree had been there in the temple courtyard ever since the time I could remember. It's said to be more than one hundred years old. It was beneath this tree that my grandmother used to sit and retell mythical stories for us children. 

This was the place which gave shade and solace to millions of weary travelers.

But no one would dare enter this area after twilight. They say that the tree would come to life. Swaying its branches, shedding its leaves and calling out to anyone who would care to listen. To hear the stories that it has to tell.

This drabble is written for Friday Fictioneers- 27th June for the above photo prompt.