Once a receptacle for hand written letters and postcards, creator of memories that were lovingly wrapped in satin ribbons… Or provider of ‘Dear John’ letters, lies forlorn.
A forgotten relic in a dumpyard, collecting cobwebs, dust and rust… A far cry from the past
I remembered my dad today.
He used to sing old hindi songs while taking one last walk around our home before he slept off. It was like a collective lullaby he sang for all of us. We drifted to sleep either with some Gurbani or a song. He had a mellifluous voice. Completely in tune and with a deep baritone.
Though I was very young, I can still hear him sing, “Mahlon ka Raaja Mila, Rani Beti Raaj Karegi…” It was a poignant song even then, set to a tune that was guaranteed to bring tears to the eyes.
When I was getting married, that song played in my head… I was certainly not marrying a “Mahlon ka Raaja” 😊 But I could feel my dad’s blessing surround me as I left my home for another.
I wonder sometimes about what feelings went through him when he put me to sleep with that song… Was that his way of making sure that the future he dreamed for me entered my subconscious mind too…? That I should treat myself no less than a queen, and carry myself with the dignity of one….
I will never have answers to those, but maybe some questions should just remain unanswered… Because the answer would change nothing… And his blessings could never be diluted ☺️
#memories #dad #downmemorylane
I remember chiffon in pastel shades with roses in Lavender and Mauve…strappy footwear to match, and perfume… exotic and luxurious… impeccable, coiffeured hair and a regal carriage. That was my mom going for an officers party with my dad. An effortless head-turner who wore her charm like a cape of elegance.
When age demanded that she give up her pencil heels for Doctor Scholls slippers, she fought tooth and nail with her doctor, it didn’t help that she had an Orthopedic surgeon for a son😊.
These were her vintage purses. She put a dainty, fragrant, lace handkerchief in it, maybe be a lipstick, but I cannot be sure.
On a recent visit to her, I became the proud, albeit unworthy recipient of her gorgeous purses. I have neither the charm nor her panache to carry them.
She told me to keep them safely for the one person who could do justice to them… And then I got a surprise call from my daughter asking me if ‘Naani’ had left something precious of hers with me, and I couldn’t help thinking, Yes! Her genes! 😁
It was a perfect moment in time.
My mom was visiting and I had cancelled all commitments to be with her without rushing around and stressing unnecessarily. She noticed this and conveyed her appreciation through a gentle smile.
As I booked tickets for a movie followed by a leisurely lunch and discussed our day with her, she couldn’t help beaming. I hugged her and expressed my pleasure at having her home. She hugged me back with a tightness that surprised me. It held in it so much…. Love, pride, gratitude, blessings… Suddenly, my eyes brimmed with tears… My mom had given me everything she thought I might need to manage my adult life with equipoise and now she stood within my arms, frail and delicate, straight – backed and proud.
As we headed home after our ‘date’, soft music filtered from the music system in the car that cocooned us from the outside traffic. Then that song started playing, the one my dad used to sing ever so beautifully…”Chain se hum ko kabhi..aap ne jeene na deeya…” I cast a sideways glance at my mom and saw a small tear form at the corner of her eye…. I skipped it, to the next one… But she requested me to put it back on… By this time a huge lump had formed in my throat too.
“It’s been thirty-seven years… ” Mom said, “so much was taken away from us that day… But his music? That no one can can take away… Let it play…”
We reached home, the sound of my dads singing reverberating in our individual memories… Rich, mellifluous, so him, so me, so mom, so Us….
That can never be taken away….. Ever…
Sometimes, for no fault of ours, we feel trapped. Stuck and entangled into complications not of our making. It seems that the harder we work to release ourself, the tighter we get stuck.
Occasionally, a passing breeze reminds us of what freedom tasted like… What movement felt like…and we long for that time when the shackles that bind us, shall release their stranglehold.
It might help to remember that if an errant breeze cut short our flight, it might be a storm that will bring our salvation… Let’s keep our eyes pinned on the lively blue sky, that awaits our dance with the breeze again… 😊
#Morningmusings #morningwalkwonders #lifelessons #justathought
I remember fireflies and moonrise.
These were the two things that I would wait for, make time for. I would look at the exact direction from where the moon would rise and judging by the soft glow emanating from behind the thickly forested hills, know exactly when it would make a glowing appearance. In the darkness of those times, where the perfection of night could be observed in all its splendor, when the hills were not inhabitated and street lights didn’t exist, it was the perfect setting to observe natures night life, especially stars and fireflies.
Surrounded by night sounds of crickets and distant cries of jackals, I would settle myself on the corner of the railing and support my back against the wall. Floating life forms, glowing, would glide by, they would congregate near some self-chosen bush or tree and do their magical dance, mesmerising me completely.
It was an isolated setting, yet one never felt alone. I made a lasting bond with my self during those silent obervations of nature. It was like the body ceased to have a boundary and just merged with its surroundings. And therein, I became the very breeze that moved the leaves on the trees at will or the moonlight that painted the landscape in a surreal silver hue.
Between the rising moon and the lively fireflies, the pressure cooker would whistle its lonesome call. Bringing images of a steam engine rolling through a desolate landscape, reminding me that dinner would not be too long now… I would get down from my perch and head downstairs after having inhaled a huge dose of solitude and beauty that would last a life time….
Todays glorious moonrise still reminds me of this…Of course, the only constant is the beauty of the moon in the distant sky. The setting from which I observe it now is altered beyond recognition…..
Remember the joy of coming across a forgotten pressed Rose? A first Valentine memory or a beauty that one wanted to always remember….So one found a book of poetry or whatever it is that one was reading at that time and placed it between the pages and shut the book gently…
And there it lay, a pressed rose, exuding its fragrance and coaxing it into the aging pages of your cherished book, till one day, years later, you chance upon it once again and you drop everything to just sit and reminisce about that small yet beautiful moment in life…
One that came back on the delicate wings of a pressed rose.