Never Let Me Go

Sometimes we have the habit of volunteering for sadness. That’s how I watched this movie.

This is not the kind of movie you’d watch on a lazy Saturday afternoon with the best tasting food on one side and some bitter beer on the other. It’s far from a romantic comedy that would help you relax and probably fall into a deep sleep.

It’s not the kind of movie you’d watch in the theatre, or on a chilly Friday night, with friends looking for adventure.

This is one of those good movies that tug at your heartstrings and make you feel bad about yourself.

It makes you hate yourself — it’s one of those movies people say would change the way you see the world.

True that; it does. But it also makes you realize how evil we are as humans.

The story is of three friends who are a part of the National Donor Program. A program that raises children in isolation, monitors everything from their food intake to their life choices, and ensures they are healthy enough — until they are old enough to fulfill their purpose. Their purpose: to donate vital organs to save the lives of people they’d never meet.

Every donor goes through multiple donations until they complete — or die, in simple terms. Some complete after four donations, but most do sooner than that.

‘Never let me go’ is the story of Tommy, Kathy and Ruth – three youngsters who fall in love with themselves and then into life’s greedy hands.

This movie will leave you miserable. The music – the violin solo – will painfully clench your heart and will render you speechless.

It did for me.

Laugh out Loud

They say laughter is the best medicine, and it’s no surprise that when we laugh, we feel so much lighter at heart.

So here it is, the laughing buddha — my symbol of laughter and good health.

Dreamers

This quote so profoundly influenced me. It’s just a lyric from a song, but it’s the undeniable truth.

I’m a dreamer, and I’m happy that way.

But I sure won’t say no to something more than a dreamer!

The Adventures of Going Home

When I awoke, I expected the familar scent of my hometown. The crowds carrying bags too heavy on one hand and dragging along a whining kid on the other.

That’s how Salem always is. It’s a small town of poeple who love to travel. Or rather, go places. They don’t travel for the joy of traveling; they go because they have to. Social convention, you see.

Most of these people are pilgrims, who spend the weekends and summer holidays visiting temples and doting over dieties.

Their bags are filled with offerings for both the gods and the temple caretakers.

Where there’s people and children, there surely is noise. And stink. Well, you know how it is in public places. You see the working class involuntarily rubbing shoulders with the real working class.

So you can imagine my surprise when I awoke to none of this. It was dark, for once — which could only have been a terrible mistake of not setting the alarm, but I never expected to make a stop at Trivandrum.

Which, by the way, is about 7 hours past home; Salem.

First thing on my mind: Panic. With a capital P, yes.

Next thing on my mind: my mother’s yelling, and my father chanting of my irresponsibility.

I didn’t want to linger, so I got down from the train as soon as I realized my blunder.

Perhaps getting down at an unknown station in the middle of the night was a the blunder. It was 2.56AM — painfully on time — and not a face in sight.

It was unnaturally quiet for a railway station. But then it took some squinting at the station boards to realize that I wasn’t at Trivandrum but a much smaller town nearby.

My body has the worst sense of timing. I felt hungry.

It could’ve been worse, I guess. What if I had had to pee? Surrounded by unfriendly darkness, I’m glad I didn’t have the surge.

I checked the time again. 3.05 AM. Panic was scratching down my throat, and I began fumbling with my phone. My friend would be expecting me at the railway station back home, and here I was stuck far, far away.

I considered calling him. He’s the calm kind. Thankfully.

I dialed, while my free ear picked up the strangest of sounds.

Is that a twig snatching? Was someone hiding just behind my view range?

Why is the railway station so empty?

Why don’t people travel in this city? Don’t they have temples to visit, and weddings of distant relatives to splurge on?

My mind began reeling with questions too big for me to answer. It didn’t help that my friend didn’t pick up the call.

I tried again, as the panic within me reached a crescendo.

Two rings, three rings, four rings, and on the fifth ring — he picked up, exactly as a loud whistle sounded somewhere so close to me.

I jumped so suddenly that I almost lost control of my bladder; I definitely lost control of my hands.

The phone dropped to the ground with a loud clatter. Lights flashed throughout the station, and with a lot of puffing and whistling, I heard a train come by.

The ground shook as the train whizzed past where I sat without stopping. Picking up the phone with fumbling hands, and to the voice of my annoyed friend, I spoke into the phone.

“Hey,” I cleared my throat. Is is just the fear or am I always that squeaky?

“I’m lost.” I managed in a much less squeaky tone.

No reply, but I knew he was listening. He waited, and I waited.

Once my breathing had returned to normal, he spoke. “Where exactly are you?”

I couldn’t pronounce the name. I spelled it out for him. He told me to wait, and that he’d call me back with a plan.

Oh, I love it when someone can make a plan that works! And he almost always knows what works.

I disconnected the call feeling lighter, and made a mental note to give him a special gift once I reached home.

I sat on the cold bench wondering what the plan could be. I knew I had to travel for at least another 8 hours to get home, but where would I go from here?

Perhaps it was the confidence that had now spread within me from speaking with my friend, but I didn’t notice much of what was going on around me.

“What are you doing here, girl?”

I had another panic attack when I saw that a balding, bespectacled man had slouched over to me from behind.

Poof. A powerful whif of Whiskey and tobacco knocked me hard in the face.

His khaki uniform seemed familiar — years of traveling the railways taught me that he was one of the railway catering crew.

“Waiting for the next train.” I managed to surprise myself on a monotone. My heart was ponding in its cage, but he didn’t have to know that.

“Oh. Ok.”

And he slouched off, quite noisily this time.

I like to think that at that moment, I looked like this:

I digress, I know.

I sat wondering at his slouching figure when my phone rang, making me, that’s right, jump.

“Hey!” I managed a weak smile that my friend couldn’t possibly see.

He didn’t sound as gleeful as I did. “Ok, listen. It’s almost morning, get a ticket to Ernakulam on the first train. You can get a direct train from there to Salem.”

To this day, I don’t know how he managed to say that without the slightest trace of malice.

“It’s already Saturday, and I have to get back to work on Monday morning,” I began a little tentatively. I knew I was walking on thin ice, but it didn’t make much sense to go home, and then leave again almost immediately.

I was half-hoping for an outburst from the other end, but none came. Just a deep sigh.

I was screwed.

“That’s right too. Anyway get yourself to Ernakulam, and we’ll see if you can fly back to Chennai.”

Why was he so deadly calm? It would’ve been better had he shouted at me.

I wanted to pacify him. To tell him how sorry I was. I almost confessed that I hadn’t really checked which train I had gotten into in the first place. I had arrived late at the station; the was just 10 minutes before departure, and I just jumped into the first train I saw.

But I wasn’t brave enough to tell him that. I ended with a single “Ok.”

I was about to disconnect when he added, “and this time, please stay awake.” He disconnected before I could respond.

For the first time in a really long time, I saw the sun as it reluctantly rose. From a deep violet to a lighter shade of orange and then to a bright yellow, the sun, unlike me, came up well rested.

The ticket counter opened soon afterwards, and I drowsily dragged my feet towards to the counter.

I got the ticket, and pulled myself back to my cold bench.

I drowned a few cups of coffee and checked nearly five times before I got into the train. Sitting by the window, I stared as the trees breezed by.

I had never before appreciated how beautiful Kerala was. I’ve been there on a school trip once before and for a friend’s marriage again, but on both occasions, I was fast asleep through morning.

I kept nodding off as the gentle breeze teased my tired eyes. Not wanting another episode, I forced myself to hang on.

After what seemed like an age, the train slowed down at the Ernakulam Railway station.

I prompty called my friend, and told of my successful arrival.

“Get to the nearest airport, and get a ticket to Chennai. Use your debit card.”

His instructions were clear; but executing it was the problem. After asking around, I learnt that the airport was about 20km away from the station, and the only way was the road.

Cursing the city architecture, I walked out of the station and into a city whose native language was my gobbledegook.

How I reached the airport is a blur to me, but all I know is that at the end of the hour, I stood shuddering in the airport.

There was no hurry; I took a seat. And I sat there for about 10 minutes, before I could walk over to the ticket counter.

I used to be nervous talking to people over counters, but after that day, I’m now extremely confident.

I was still mildly shuddering as I asked for my ticket.

The woman at the counter smiled mechanically, and responded in a heavy accent.

“Sure. Here you go. I hope you enjoy your travel.”

I felt too weak for anything more than a thin smile, “Thanks.”

And then came the waiting time. I called my friend again to let him know I was alright. And he sounded more like himself as he replied, “Alright. Take care, and enjoy the flight. It’s your first, remember.”

Oops! It was my first time on air, and I am terrified of heights!

I had half a mind to cancel and get a train to Chennai — however long the journey would be. But I was more scared of my friend’s reaction.

I had never been so sceptical of myself.

My heat beat accelerated for every step I took to the plane. My face betrayed no fear though; I am a woman, I could handle a flight.

I gulped as I entered the plane and the powerful whiff of recycled air hit me harder than I had expected. Stifling a terrible cough, I found my seat.

To steady my hands more than anything, I fumbled with the seat belt. Forgetting about the air, I gulped several times in quick succession before I realized I was hurting myself.

Turning to the side, I gazed at the wing just visible outside my window. In spite of the fear that had clenched my throat painfully, I enjoyed the view for the next 45 minutes.

When I walked into the familiar scorching heat of Chennai, I couldn’t help but feel happy to be back. There was something oddly satisfying about familiarity, even if it was detestable.

And there he was, my friend; my driver, waiting faithfully as ever.

It’s best to end this here, because the screaming episode that followed the welcome smile, wasn’t as pleasant.

The Writer Within Me

It began about a year after my tenth birthday. My classmates had discovered the power of hormones. Friends were categorized into guys and girls, and everywhere, butterflies erupted.

Meanwhile, I, the late-bloomer, was scratching my head at the sudden change around me. It became increasingly difficult to endure conversations with friends. How was I supposed to know how cute my friend’s neighbour was? School became a tiring, inescapable routine.

Home wasn’t any better. Luckily, my parents lacked interest in mediocre television. We did have a TV set — modest and as old as I. Since it served the purpose, my parents preferred not to indulge in luxuries. Besides, we hardly engaged the idiot box. The news was the only thing my father deemed worthy of watching. And listening to people getting ripped off wasn’t exactly my idea of leisure.

That’s when I started looking for alternatives. It was surprising how free I was – so much time, yet so little to do.

More out of desperation than anything, I scavenged the house for old magazines. Tamil or English — it didn’t matter. As long as it kept me occupied. And occupied I was.

But when you’re reading magazines all the time, you realize they don’t publish them as often. Then I went back to square one. One day, I waited eagerly for my father’s return from work, and once he did, I stood in the doorway of his room leaning my head on the frame.

“I’m bored. Can you get me some books?”

My father isn’t the unusual kind. Good grades mattered most to him. And so he responded, “What about your school books? Are you done reading them?”

I wasn’t surprised, I half expected it. Everyone said that , it would have been surprising had he said anything else. Back then, I was young. And timid. I’d rather shut up and sit in a corner than speak back to my father. Not that I was afraid of him — he wasn’t the terrifying kind. It was the utmost respect that I held him in that prevented me from being rude. He has high regard for values and morals. Values my mother also shares. With such parents, I grew up learning to obey elders. I learnt — sometimes the hard way — that elders are experienced and know better than I ever would. It was one of those Indian mentalities you have to accept without questions.

But even I knew he asked too much of me. I was having a hard enough time in school and wasn’t willing to spend my time at home going through the same torture. I’d pretend to study just before my father returned home. When he saw me at it, he’d smile approvingly. I didn’t feel guilty — because I saw he was happy.

There was no point in being a rebel if no one’s going to benefit. That was my first action of disobedience.

But despite this little success, I was still bored. My mother was always supportive of reading. She was a voracious reader herself, but I could seldom comprehend her interest in newspaper articles. I think it was she who suggested the school library.

In the following weeks, I developed a close relationship with my school librarian. Not sure where to start, I decided to pursue a series I had always enjoyed. I discovered the entire series of Enid Blyton classics. As weeks turned into months, my librarian recommended a crime novel that not many students preferred. “The mirror crack’d from side to side” — it wasn’t love at first sight. It was a worn book with torn pages. How silly of me!

I had no way of knowing back then that that’s the mark of all wonderful creations. And so began my love for Crime.

Naturally, my father noticed. I’ve always admired his ability to recognize unconventional behavior. He’s something of a detective himself. What surprised me though, was his approval. Perhaps it was the pretense-studying, or that my grades weren’t so bad, or perhaps my mother had just put in a good word. Whatever it was, my father got me books – where from, I still don’t know.

Those were the best days of my life – days and nights of reading. And then one day, my father handed me “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.” I remember my hands tingling. I had heard so much about the book, of course. That day, I discovered my love for storytelling.

I read the book about twelve times continuously. To say I was hooked is an understatement. I revered the writing.

How could simple words, in sequence, captivate me so?

I tried to answer myself by reading the book and the series again. To this day, that’s what motivates my reading. The writing made me think. I knew the words; they were straightforward. So why can’t I write it?

Then I realized — writing is just finding the perfect sequence for words we overuse. Could it really be difficult? And so I began writing. Every new book I read helped me discover new styles and words, but Rowling’s writing was the basis on which I built my passion.

Everything I read today kindles the inspiration for my short stories, poems, and blog posts.

Inspired by Anne Frank and the cartoon, “As told by Ginger,” my first writing was in my journal. I liked Anne’s idea of naming her journal “Kitty.” A neutral name — neither boy nor girl. I did the same, addressing my letters to ‘X.’ I still do.

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