Life, Laughter and Everything Else

"Something that three or four years ago you told me was one of the touchstones of maturity: being nice to people even when they’re not nice to you…" - William Styron It was an plan that came out of nowhere. Perhaps half depressed by the winter and half depressed by the inactivity at work, there was sufficient turmoil in the mind to create these type of plans and then let it fester, until something that started off with a what-if turned into a why-not. It would have been the perfect revenge for the past hurt and humiliation that was yet to completely heal.  The circumstances were similar. On one side, an eager visitor who had traveled far to say "Hello" and on the other side, a host, bewildered and surprised by this visit. In the first case, the host would not receive the visitor, who would turn back humiliated and vowing never again. Now the roles were reversed and I was the host. What if I agreed to receive? What if in reality I did not plan to receive?

I wonder why I came to Berlin at times.  Not because I do not love this city, with all its weirdness, energy, loneliness and freedom.  But because every moment I spend here, back home family and friends plan and celebrate marriages, childbirths, new jobs, new houses, new adventures, triumphs and tribulations and I can do nothing but watch from the stands and cheer them on. All the while knowing and paining in my heart that I could and should have been on that field, playing right there with them. To all the ones I could not be there for...

She is startled to see me in the room. Unfortunately, when my physical presence is felt without warning, I have realised that it scares more than it impresses. However, I wait for her still. I do not have that strong of a romantic affection for her, the one where she fills my dreams and my thoughts endlessly, where the longing for someone would spin blissful imaginary tales for the future. An innocent crush would be a more appropriate word, where you like someone, but that liking stops at a certain boundary. For the liking I do have for her is because I feel comfortable around her, a comfort characterised by the need to talk about what is going on in each other’s life. She is like an open book from which the words flow freely and who still possess the empty pages on which I can unashamedly write my own story. I can imagine taking her to bed, but that imagination lacks emotion. Instead, I would rather take her for a walk, to that pretty pastry shop I saw the other day, to the wine

Why do people want to have children? If as the Buddha said, life is suffering, doesn't the whole idea of having children mean bring someone onto the Earth only to see them suffer? Where is the satisfaction in that?

It was just a bar, but it was also his sanctuary, where he regularly returned to share the triumphs and tribulations of his life. At Publicans, he found a listening ear, a comforting pat, the guiding hands and all the memories that would eventually become his bestselling memoir of the name ‘The Tender Bar’. It was reminiscent of Central Perk in Friends, or MacLaren’s Pub in How I Met Your Mother. As S stood near the stove and patiently stir fried the onions like he always did, it just hit me. This was where I came, lugging beer and chicken, when I wanted to get away from it all and just be at home. It was where we could open our heart out and speak of the torments, the absurdities and the loneliness of the lives we led in this foreign land and expect to be understood. The alcohol would soften our hearts and loosen our tongues and the chicken curry that he prepared would keep the thoughts of our actual home at bay. It was a ritual between the three of us. Sometimes we met outside,

"So what does he do", I quizzed her, zealous in my attempts to paint a picture of this stranger who had taken over what was once mine. "He's not always reading like you", she gave a hint, a slight rebuke at a habit that she used to always mock me for. To read. To write. To think. I had to admit they never gave me the bliss she did. Nor did they give the memories. Or the pleasures. But unlike her, they were always there by my side, only absent by my own choice to not be with them. It was they who made my dreams as a child, endowed me with that lively imagination I still have to this day, helped me make sense of all the chaos in the world, comfort and inspire me in my darkest movements, fill the vast swathes of time that threatened to bore me and lifted me up when she let me down. It is reading that made me who I am, and I am damn well proud of it.

The memory of him came into my head rather unexpectedly. I did not recall much, but this pitch dark, round, bald man, forever in the white shirt and lungi who would cycle to my home almost ever other evening of my childhood in Ernakulam. He would sit in the verandah while one of the other adults in the house attended to him. Sometime I recalled he sat alone and I would be told to keep him company. I barely remember what we talked about, but he had an open hearted and down to earth personality. Once when the mango tree in the front garden was drooping with ripe, delicious mangoes, I remember he helped to tie a few long poles together to fashion a long mango picker. We plucked sacks of mangoes that day (he would take one sack home to the dismay of a couple of the some in my house).  We called him Appachen. And he had long passed away. Just like many other people, who had been once mainstays of my life. Like Mummy. Papa. And recently, Sherrymaman.  It brought to mind an old