Thursday, March 25, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Lucky Girl
Most childhood experiences are remembered with a fond degree of vagueness, or not at all. But not mine. I was never allowed to forget this one incident. So here I am, remembering that one incident, in graphic detail, through the one medium available to me: my thoughts.
I was named a different name, but I call myself lucky as that is the only name I hear around me anyway. On why I am called lucky, is what the incident is all about. I was but a toddler then. Not an age where memories are established. So now that I try to remember I can't understand why I left my mother. Well this is no good. Let me start at the right place: the beginning.
The year was 1994. Supposedly the year was a hot one in Michigan, where I was born. This was also the year when my dad got promoted to supervisor in the Ford showroom. I think that was the trigger. My dad is a very low key person. He prefers to walk when he can, even though he was a car salesman for most of his life and a good one at that. He preferred small private dinners to parties even on special occasions. And most importantly he hated outdoor parties. Which is the one thing that surprises me. Not that he hates outdoor parties, but that he has hated them since ever, even before the incident.
The promotion, even though it was a big thing back then, was not expected to lead to a party. But nobody had taken my uncle into account. My fun loving, crazy, extrovert Uncle. He was not my dad's real brother. He was adopted. "That explains the craziness", mom used to say. So there was my father who was quietly acknowledging the congratulations all around and there was my Uncle saying the same thing again and again, "Partyyyy!!". "More like shouting", mom says. And a party it was. No ordinary party. It was planned to be "one helluva party," in the words of my uncle. And where was it? Right next to the M-1. In the greatest open space restaurant of the area, "Marijuana". The place still exists. In a small town like ours, the great spaces never die out.
Everybody, who was anybody to us was there. Including some who weren't. The star attraction of course was my uncle. Dad just laid back and let it roll. Mom was the busy self conscious host. And where was I? I was supposed to be with her.
One thing that I do remember about being a toddler is the enormity of the world back then. But on that day, no distance seemed great and I was soon amongst the crowd. A crowd is again a safe place for a toddler, until of course the cursed word "Dance". Now there was no longer a crowd. I was the parcel in the "Passing the parcel" game and soon there was no one to pass to.
Now the next thing I know, I was on the end of a great big sand lot and then there was no sand lot. In the revised edition of the incident (It gets revised each time the degree of luckiness changes), by this time the whole party was looking for me, which I doubt. I think I can safely say that my grandparents and dad were part of the search party. My uncle by now was supposedly being given the dressing down of his life time.
I suddenly saw that the floor was no longer smoothy rough but just rough. I was no longer next to the M-1, I was on the M-1. Things became highly interesting as I heard wooshing sounds ahead. The search got hotter and finally desperate. Of course no prizes for guessing who found me. By the time he came I was in the middle of the tarmac and the wooshing sound had been accompanied by a frighteningly loud honking. A long shadow was upon me. And suddenly I felt arms covering me and pushing me. Then a sickening crunch.
All my life I have been called lucky. I would have been better off called another name. Heard of a guilt trip? Well my life has been one long guilt trip. In the movies I see now, the same scene acts out differently. The hero always gets up smiling. But not my uncle. Lucky me....
But my story doesn't end here. My scars have become painful now. The very air I breathe heavy and sapping. The year is 2010. A whole decade has passed and more. I am on my bike going home. I am at a level crossing. Unmanned. The light is red. There I see him. The little boy would be about 2. He is sitting bang in the middle of the track. I can hear the train now. I vault the barrier. The train is too fast. I am about to jump when the thought stops me," Am I doing the right thing?" There is no boy any more. I am the boy. Do I risk my life and save his life. Or do I save his life by not risking mine?? The torture is unbearable....
I decide to save him.
I was named a different name, but I call myself lucky as that is the only name I hear around me anyway. On why I am called lucky, is what the incident is all about. I was but a toddler then. Not an age where memories are established. So now that I try to remember I can't understand why I left my mother. Well this is no good. Let me start at the right place: the beginning.
The year was 1994. Supposedly the year was a hot one in Michigan, where I was born. This was also the year when my dad got promoted to supervisor in the Ford showroom. I think that was the trigger. My dad is a very low key person. He prefers to walk when he can, even though he was a car salesman for most of his life and a good one at that. He preferred small private dinners to parties even on special occasions. And most importantly he hated outdoor parties. Which is the one thing that surprises me. Not that he hates outdoor parties, but that he has hated them since ever, even before the incident.
The promotion, even though it was a big thing back then, was not expected to lead to a party. But nobody had taken my uncle into account. My fun loving, crazy, extrovert Uncle. He was not my dad's real brother. He was adopted. "That explains the craziness", mom used to say. So there was my father who was quietly acknowledging the congratulations all around and there was my Uncle saying the same thing again and again, "Partyyyy!!". "More like shouting", mom says. And a party it was. No ordinary party. It was planned to be "one helluva party," in the words of my uncle. And where was it? Right next to the M-1. In the greatest open space restaurant of the area, "Marijuana". The place still exists. In a small town like ours, the great spaces never die out.
Everybody, who was anybody to us was there. Including some who weren't. The star attraction of course was my uncle. Dad just laid back and let it roll. Mom was the busy self conscious host. And where was I? I was supposed to be with her.
One thing that I do remember about being a toddler is the enormity of the world back then. But on that day, no distance seemed great and I was soon amongst the crowd. A crowd is again a safe place for a toddler, until of course the cursed word "Dance". Now there was no longer a crowd. I was the parcel in the "Passing the parcel" game and soon there was no one to pass to.
Now the next thing I know, I was on the end of a great big sand lot and then there was no sand lot. In the revised edition of the incident (It gets revised each time the degree of luckiness changes), by this time the whole party was looking for me, which I doubt. I think I can safely say that my grandparents and dad were part of the search party. My uncle by now was supposedly being given the dressing down of his life time.
I suddenly saw that the floor was no longer smoothy rough but just rough. I was no longer next to the M-1, I was on the M-1. Things became highly interesting as I heard wooshing sounds ahead. The search got hotter and finally desperate. Of course no prizes for guessing who found me. By the time he came I was in the middle of the tarmac and the wooshing sound had been accompanied by a frighteningly loud honking. A long shadow was upon me. And suddenly I felt arms covering me and pushing me. Then a sickening crunch.
All my life I have been called lucky. I would have been better off called another name. Heard of a guilt trip? Well my life has been one long guilt trip. In the movies I see now, the same scene acts out differently. The hero always gets up smiling. But not my uncle. Lucky me....
But my story doesn't end here. My scars have become painful now. The very air I breathe heavy and sapping. The year is 2010. A whole decade has passed and more. I am on my bike going home. I am at a level crossing. Unmanned. The light is red. There I see him. The little boy would be about 2. He is sitting bang in the middle of the track. I can hear the train now. I vault the barrier. The train is too fast. I am about to jump when the thought stops me," Am I doing the right thing?" There is no boy any more. I am the boy. Do I risk my life and save his life. Or do I save his life by not risking mine?? The torture is unbearable....
I decide to save him.
Monday, March 1, 2010
[Untitled]:Meme II
Forget Tagging a fellow blogger. That kinda takes away the limelight from you. So instead I am going to publish the blogger's post here and thereby take credit. The blogger in question here is my best friend Anirudh. Now, Anirudh read my post on the Meme: Abstract poetry and was inspired to write one of his own. And this just happens to be incredibly better than mine and therefore I am posting it here..
Why
Are there questions
For which the answers
Despite their relevance
Begin with “I Think”
Why
Are there thoughts
Built with prayers
Though rarely answered
Fill people with hope
Why
Does every action
Right or wrong it may be
Makes us ponder
“Was it really worth it?”
Why
Does the easy way
Cease to exist
When the question is asked, it should be,
“The hard way or the hard way?”
Why
Do people say “no offence”
When all I want to do is not smile but
Punch them in the face and say
“None taken”
Why
Do we have to ask why
How and when
Craving every detail
Desperate for knowledge
Only leading to more questions like
WHY?
Now if you still do want to visit his stupid blog (I don't know why in the world you'd want to though..) you can go here.
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