The one about Fountain Pens

I was eight years old when I got my first fountain pen.

I hated it. It took me a long time to learn to write properly with it. Broken nibs and ink splattered notebooks were an everyday thing.
But I loved hearing the scratch of the nib on paper. The way the ink flowed and created patterns was magical.
I remember going out with the whole fam to buy my first ever pen.
Now I have to buy them in secret because all I do is buy more and more. It is an expensive hobby.
The first pen was white. With fruits on it. Oranges and grapes and bananas. You name it, the pen had it. In my defense, the eight year old found it very pretty. It had a gold clip. I had written only with pencils till then. Amma was very particular about me not using ball pens. And I was so excited. To fill ink, use Blotting paper to blot it. Life had just gotten interesting.
Day 1 and I came home with ink on my uniform, all my fingers and even my lips. I think it took me weeks to get the situation under control. The white pen with fruits had its nib changed countless number of times. My pencil box was stuffed with tissues and chalk.
I hadn’t even heard of a Parker until an aunt gifted Ettan one. I was so jealous. Now, the Parker is one of the modest pens in my collection. A friend mentioned he only writes with a Sheaffer. Now, I know why.
Fountain pens are on my list of my most gifted items. “I love it, I think you will appreciate it too.”
Why did I write about fountain pens today?
I was writing with one and remembered going out with Amma to buy one. It is a beautiful memory.
Long before gel pens and roller balls, I fell in love with fountain pens and have remained faithful since. Filling ink and smelling ink give me a high.
Life lessons from fountain pens :
1. The best pens are not the expensive ones.
2. Don’t judge a pen by its color. It’s the ink that’s inside that matters.
3. However good your pen and ink is, the quality of the paper that you write on decides everything.
P.S: I was detained at Delhi Airport during security check for carrying a Lamy in my handbag. It took me a lot of time to convince them that it was a writing device.
/
#fountainpensandme

Home.

Home.

Where everything reminds me of something.

I have been trying for a couple of days but not able to put anything into words.

So much happiness it’s overwhelming. It’s making me sad.

Not bipolar, just me struggling with my emotions.

A torn bedsheet which Ammamma mended with crooked stitches, when her eyesight was failing.

A tiny measuring cup Amma used to measure daal in.

Red hair band(s) from my school days. We never throw stuff away.

The familiar creak of the old almirah where we store bed linen.

Bits and baubles from my childhood.

An old autograph book. Faded ink, distorted smileys, but all the memories still intact.

Pencil stubs and old pens which may have life in them. Calenders hung in descending order of the years that the house has seen. A book shelf filled with books, old and new.

A favorite spoon, a plate I ate from everyday. Frayed table cloth but oh! The familiar sights and smells at the dining table. Comfort food, food that makes you feel right at place.

Tiny’s toys are all over the place, but let’s just unsee that for a moment here.

I click mental pictures all the time to add to my stack of happy memories. Will revisit on nights when sleep isn’t my friend.

I didn’t get time to open the chest of draws with the albums yet. Maybe this time I won’t. It will only add to the weight of memories I will struggle to carry back home. Home, I said home again. Didn’t I?

My home. A place I built with my tiny family. Things I bought. Memories we made.

As you grow up, home gets a different meaning. I just realized a person can call more than one place a home. It’s a place where you are at peace. A home is a place we build. Day after day after day.

Where there’s laughter and joy, a warm bed and perhaps, people to give you company; food on the table even if it’s the lousy food I manage to put together. A place I long to get back to, at the end of the day.

I have a Kottayam home and a Palakkad home. How rich am I? 🥹

❤️

That’s Tiny, at 6, doing a real-time portrait of Achan.

#corememory

Of books and other stories

I first visited the Kottayam Public Library on the 17th of September, 2022. 4 years after moving to Kottayam and finally accepting the fact that I won’t be going anywhere else, soon. What I thought was a temporary move in 2018, but fate had other plans, so I see.

17th September is a day that is etched in my mind, for reasons other than this.

So, we took Tiny to the library the second time we visited, checked out the children’s section, wasn’t impressed but picked out a book anyway. He read it and while I religiously visited every month, picking up my quota of 4 books, he didn’t seem to be interested anymore.

Until last month, when he insisted on accompanying me, and chose 5 books. The kind lady at the counter asked him to put one back, and though he wasn’t very happy about it, he obliged.

This month, I didn’t ask him to come with me for obvious reasons.

I took my sweet time picking four lovely books and his Tinyness storms in, goes to the children’s section and starts hunting.

We fought.

I kept two of my books back on the shelf.

End of story.

I remember how I used to fight with Amma over who gets to take all the books at the libraries we visited. We even had separate library cards eventually.

I saw Amma’s name in print after ages. On a credit card application couple of days back. They have a space for your mother’s name. You don’t realize how hard it hits some days. I couldn’t do anything for a while after that. I couldn’t think of anyone else for hours after that.

Life’s weirdly painful that way.

Slow living. Is probably a myth.

I came to talk about slow living. About not seizing the day. I think I am done with Carpe diem and all the other bullshit.

I just want to make it through another day. Survive, breathe, get to drink my coffee atleat lukewarm,if not hot, eat all three meals in a day and go to bed not having to worry about items on my to-do list.

Maybe it’s being in the later half of the thirties. I would rather get a good night’s sleep than binge watch a series or even finish a book.

I love putting Tiny to bed, even though most days I end up sleeping before he does. His tiny arms around me and all the stories I get to hear. Best part of the day, if you ask me.

I love routine and have come to strongly detest change of any sort.

I hate it when they don’t have my regulars at the grocery store.

I love Friday nights because I go to bed knowing I don’t have to wake up early.

I don’t have patience for movies anymore. Any of them. No matter how good you claim it to be.

I like silence. And calm. And a quiet house. I am glad we don’t own a TV because I would have done some serious damage to it by now.

I like my fan at minimum speed and the AC at 27, thank you.

I am tired.

Tired of the whole facade.

Maybe it’s time to retire.

Buy a home by the sea or at the foot of some mountain. Listen to the waves or the birds, doesn’t really matter.

But I have a mouth to feed, mine.

So I will go to work on Monday morning.

But until then, one can dream.

Of slow living, hot coffee, and perhaps, completing a book I started a couple of weeks ago.

#rants

#sleepyandtiredandangry

My phone had a major update related display issue and is under repair. I miss it. The comfort of holding the device and seeing the familiar screen.

What are we in the end, but stories?

What are we in the end, but stories?

Stories your great grand kids might hear from their grandparents,

Stories your friends might tell their kids.

Stories you leave behind between the leaves of an old worn book,

Stories that survive in handwritten letters.

A well thought out long love note,

Tiny scribbles on crinkled paper,

Ticket stubs and candy wrappers,

Souvenirs of a life gone by

An old gift wrap with stubborn creases that refuse to go away

A pink lace ribbon, neatly folded

A velvet box, which may have once held a ring.

Birthday cards and post-it notes,

Autographs and address books,

An invitation to a wedding

You once thought you would attend

A broken glass bangle,

A reminder of the night we said goodbye.

Pressed flowers,

And a long lost scent.

Postcards tied together with a string,

An odd inland or two

A stamp from the time you sent me an envelope,

Words not legible because the ink has long faded

In the end, what is to remain of us

But stories

In the hearts of those

Whose lives we touched.

The comfort in ordinary things

There is comfort in picking up a stray flower and placing it between the pages of a well read book. Sometimes, habits are so easy to form.

There is comfort in playing around with words. It’s where I am at ease, it’s where I don’t feel alienated.

To carve a niche out for yourself in this fast paced world, where everyone wants action, more and more of it; its difficult to sit in a corner wanting none of it.

I want quiet evenings. A book in my lap. Maybe wine in my hands. I make do with coffee too. I like warm lighting. Loud noises overwhelm me.

I like familiarity. And like everyone else around me, try so hard to resist change.

I like the comfort of warm food. Something that brings me back to my childhood is always welcome. The familiar smell and taste of home, it has made me feel more secure that I could have ever imagined.

There is comfort in waking up next to Tiny, his tiny arm around my neck somedays. Or the way his body curves to fit mine. Always looking for warmth.

There is comfort in having A around. Always dependable. Someone I have been taking for granted. I don’t know if it bothers him but I guess it’s too late to stop.

There’s comfort in staying awake, long past my bedtime. Picking up random thoughts that flutter by and making sense out of it.

There is comfort in these few minutes of solitude. The world sleeps. For a while, I don’t have to worry about tomorrow. It’s still hours away.

There’s so much comfort in dipping into my pensieve and wallowing in memories. I always ‘skip to the good parts’. There’s so much to be grateful for.

There is comfort in knowing that someone out there feels the same as me and can relate to what I write.

There’s a whole lot of comfort in knowing you are not alone.

I want to be remembered.

I was sad and I went back to Murakami today.

Norwegian Wood.

“I want you always to remember me. Will you remember that I existed and that I stood next to you here like this?”

I started out on the wrong foot with Murakami ages back when I tried reading 1Q84. I could not beyond a few chapters and gave up on it. Though I loved a few quotes from his books, never went back to reading him until a friend strongly recommended I read this one. Better late than never.

Norwegian Wood is beautiful. I could relate to it on many layers. I loved Midori. She is too good to be real. Broken but so full of life.

I took my time reading it. It had been ages since I thoroughly enjoyed a book. There were always too many distractions, too little time.

As I told ‘someone’ today, I want to be remembered. I am scared I will be forgotten too soon. Like everything else in life.

“What happens when people open their hearts?”

“They get better.”

Time’s racing past me and I can’t decide for the love of me what to do next. Read this book or that. Write something. Find time to call someone I was meaning to. Reply to that unopened text. Ignore work emails? I am way past the adrenaline rush that deadline anxiety once gave me. I no longer care. It’s scary.

Is this midlife crisis or is this just me being me?

(totally rhetorical question)

But this I know. I have missed writing. I have missed the satisfaction I get after putting out some words together on a piece of paper or my screen. It’s almost orgasmic.

Tomorrow is going to be a better day.

How are you?

What do I write about?

Where do I start?

Shall I talk about how often I feel lonely even when I am amidst a room full of people?

Shall I write about how difficult it is to get up and make it to work on most mornings?

This pretty little yellow flower looks mighty confident, but doesn’t she fear not being seen and caught under someone’s shoe.

I think I fear being trampled under people’s judgement.

Maybe I should write about how intimidating it is to sometimes face people, force yourself to make small talk and act like you care.

I am this person who only has Achan and A on my call list. I am a text person. Never a call person. Unless there’s an emergency, of course. Else, read the signs. Please text.

I am a pushover. The most difficult thing in the world for me is to say No. It hurts like a bleeding wound would do. So I always say yes and regret most of the yes es later. By then it would be too late to mumble the No.

I cannot put out my thoughts into speech most times unless it is when I am talking to myself. At all other times, writing helps.

I am a people person. I like them more than movies but less than books. I get attached to people very soon. Tell them how I feel about them. Verbally, in writing and through actions. Maybe that’s why it hurts bad when the actions aren’t reciprocated or plain ignored.

I care about what others think of me. Maybe not so much about what they talk about me. Then again, I am good at telling everyone not to give a damn about what others think of them. High time I convince myself too.

I write to keep myself grounded. Most times, the thoughts inside my head are too much for me to handle and it helps to put it out somewhere. In my journal, mostly.

Lately, I have this feeling of being overwhelmed. By thoughts. There’s this irrational fear of time running out. I wake up, blink and it’s bed time again. My to-do list remains untouched. Tasks piling up day after day after day. Prioritizing is hard and I think I have stopped caring.

The only thing I am sure of is that family always comes first. There’s no undoing that. It’s what I have seen growing up. It’s where I find half of my answers. The rest can wait.

P.S: Tiny, at age 5, is very keen on knowing when me and A will die and if we can please wait until he’s old enough. He says he doesn’t want to be alone.

I remember asking Amma what in the world I was supposed to do if she were not there anymore. I know now. I keep living.

The colour of faded memories.

What is the color of faded memories?

Grayscale?

Muted pastels?

Sepia tones, mostly, I would say.

I have this mental image of my mom, combing her waist length hair, I say combing because she always used a wide toothed comb and never a brush. She then used to braid it in the prettiest way possible and come to bed. It was my favorite part of the day.

Amma, combing her hair in front of the dressing table, admiring her handiwork in the hazy mirror, one side of it covered with maroon and black bindis, which still had some life left in them to last for two or three trips to the store, or the distance it took to drop us off at school.

This night time routine was a constant, just before bedtime and I used to sit there, watching her and wondering when my hair would be long enough to braid. As a three year old, I used to clutch the end of this braid in my tiny fist while going to bed. It was my anchor. It held my world steady. It kept nightmares away. It brought about a better day.

Ending today with good memories so that I can brave yet another day. I am glad I have this wisp of memory to hold onto.

Finding joy in the mundane

Sometimes when I have had a very busy week,

I find comfort in the little things

It’s the daily chores that offer

A respite from it all.

Standing in the kitchen,

Slowly stirring a pot of curry

Making sure it doesn’t stick

to the sides and bottom of the pot.

Watching the milk boil

Rise till the cusp

Then fall back on itself

The creamy froth dissolving into nothing

Taking clothes off the line

Sun dried and crisp

Holding them to my face

Before folding them neat.

Making the bed

And fluffing the pillows

Whie watching the dust flecks

Dance to the tune of the morning’s bright rays

Taking time out for long warm baths

And singing to myself in the shower

Following the trail of the soap suds

Drawing circles going down the drain

Ironing out every piece of clothing

With the utmost attention

Watch the steam hiss and puff

While ruling out every tiny crease

There is so much joy

In these little things

That they often let me forget

I have a life to get back to.

P.S: I bought a pair of earrings. They looked beautiful in the evening light. I wanted a picture to go with a note I wrote today. May or may not fit the caption.