Of Childhood Friendships

Childhood friend. What does that mean??
In a cinema style it would mean a girl and boy being neighbours as kids, liking each other only to get separated and find each other a decade later by means for a song or a watch or something, falling in love and getting married, and the hardships they face in the process.
In reality there are very few of us who have a friend whom we can call as a childhood friend. In the day and age of Facebook, it isn't hard to find an old friend but is sharing pictures and seeing the pages they like, what a childhood friendship is about.
No.
It is much more.
It is about all the unspoken words. It is about the thoughts you share. It is about knowing that your friend is there no matter what.
It is about being apart for years but connecting the instant you meet again. Sometimes not even meeting but still connecting through a simple mail. It is about not having to catch up.
It isn't about long phone calls and endless chats. It is about knowing that any time you want to talk, they are there. Time is irrelevant.
It is about who you think of first to share your joy and sorrow. Especially your sorrow.
It isn't about coffees, lunches or dinners or even wishing them on their birthday. It is about your saddest moments, your deepest feelings, your inexplicable thoughts. They are always beside you. With you.
Close your eyes and they are there. Understanding you even though they are miles away.

So what's our story?

My mother was pregnant with my sister (another post will talk about the sorrows and joys (?) of having a younger sister) and so we had come down to India for a few months.
Arun's family lived in the house above.
My first memories of him is the picture you see above. I think I remembered the hot pink skirt more than I remembered him, but oh well, he still fit somewhere in the memory.
After we went back to the UK we completely lost touch, though his name and his family was mentioned occasionally at home.
Years passed by, and one summer holiday, when all of us had gathered at my grandma's place for a holiday, the mamas decided that keeping these children at home was driving everyone crazy and so we went for a one day trip. On the way we passed through Palakad and stopped at Arun's house. When we entered the house, we were welcomed with hot food and the beautiful sounds of the veena. Arun was having veena class. Respect grew. We spent hardly an hour at his place and I didn't get to talk much to him. Little hard when you are surrounded by a dozen or more people.
A few years later he came to Bangalore and that is when we actually got a chance to speak properly.
Since then we've been constantly in touch. Emails, phone calls. Even when with him sitting all the way in Sweden.
Today, more than 20 years of knowing him, I can 'classify' him as a childhood friend.


Dear Arun. This is for you.
I am blessed to have you in my life.
Always have been. Always will be.

Krupa

There she goes.... My grandma.

The sun infiltrated in through the curtains and hit her eyes. She pulled the blanket further up to cover her eyes. Waking up meant waking up to the reality. Reality which had hit her hard with the cold hand of death. The void inside seemed unbearable. It wasn't so bad when she was on her home ground, but here. Every nook and cranny was full of memories. Even when she shut her eyes there were only memories.

The house was full of people. Full was an understatement. The 3BHK was bursting at its seams. All the brothers and their families had gathered. Every room had bags, every chair had clothes, and every bed and inch of the floor had someone sleeping, resting, sitting. There was a queue for everything- from the morning coffee to using the bathroom. These were only the people who were staying. There were another 70 odd people who came to visit. The supply of tea and coffee and water was never ending. Looking at all those people she realised how many lives her patti had touched.

Her patti. She would never hear her say "Kiruba" again. Never get kissed by her and crushed in her bear like hug. What had her patti not done for her.

It was because of her patti that she knew why Ganesha had an elephant's head, why one of his tusks was broken, how Muruga went to Pazhani (such a silly fight between him and his brother), how Muruga landed up with Valli and Devayani, and all the brilliant stories of Krishna and his feats. All this and more was because her patti. Who would tell her stories now? More importantly who would tell her kids all these stories?

Who would make all the cousins sit in a row and feed them dinner? Who would make the most brilliant murukku and sooji appam?

Who would tell her stories of all her naughty mamas and her rebellious mother? Who would call and then say every 2 minutes- vechitumma (Shall I keep the phone?).

All that remains now is a picture in the hall and the ever-so-wonderful never-ending list of memories. 

We are so caught up in running and keeping up with the race against the rest of the world, but the joke is on us. Because the world will never ever stop running. It is like trying to reach the end of the rainbow. There are no winners. All that happens is that we lose out on what matters most. Family. The craziness, the fights, the laughter, the food, the tears, the joy, and all the unconditional love. 

Don't wait to lose someone to realise this. Then again, realisation never strikes until you face it.

Foolish Humans, say the Gods above. 

To Arjun. On his birthday.

The best gift a person can give is their time.
What I have here is all the time I wasted to give you this awesome gift.
The fruit of midnight battle with words

10 things I hate about you.

 

I hate that you're not 'sensible' like me when I am the older one.

I hate that I've learnt more English from you than you've learnt chemistry from me.

I hate that you listen to me whine and rant, and never ever complain.

I hate that you let me be ME the whole while I am with you.

I hate that you have good taste and make shopping much more fun.

I hate that we can't have coffee any more, and yet meet all the time.

I hate that you've managed to rub off on me, as I have on you (I think)

I hate that you know what you want, and sometimes what I want too.

I hate that I completely enjoy every minute I hang out with you.

But most of all I hate that you inspire me yet leave me searching for words.

krupa