My true vacation getaway!

I love this house. Because it is the one where my parents' rest their weary heads at night eveyday. But that is how its always been. I remember that last house in Bahrain, that they had lived in when I visited with an 8 month old Winkie. It was the last house because within a year after that, they also vacated the place to move back to desh. It was the smallest of all the flats we had been in and logically so, for us three kids had already moved out of the household by then. So for the 2 of them, that tiny 2 bedroom flat, with a tinier living room and an even more tiny kitchen, was quite sufficient, even barring the inconvenience of climbing 3 flights of stairs to get there.

True happiness, I found in that house. That might sound like a loaded statement, but it was so. Because happiness to me then, meant a near-uninterrupted night of sleep, and a very, very willing 2 pairs of extra hands to carry, cuddle, clothe and kiss baby Winkie. And I got that in plenty there. I was almost in a state of trauma by that point, after 9 relentless months of sleepless nights rocking and walking that terrible sleeper of a child, and I would have given just about anything for just one night of a straight 6 hours.

This was also a time when I got to reconnect with a phase of my life that didn't involve motherhood, that of meeting with a very old and very loved school friend. I would leave Winkie behind at home and with an almost carefree abandon, go check out the latest cine flick with my buddy. Not to mention shopping trips and walks, and lengthy phone conversations, and squatting flat on the floor of the tailor's shop, poring over design booklets and coming up with our own sketches of what would look good and her textile designer instincts were always good with that, but I digress.

Everytime I said I loved that house, my parents' would protest comparing it with the bigger and more spacious flats we had lived in. But this is the one I will love most, because it was the one that housed me when I was most raw and needy. Simple meals cooked in that simple, small kitchen, waking up late, to see everything already done, and having to do very little to get by for the next 7 hours before my parents' came home from school, other than feeding and playing with that bundle of cuteness that was Winkie, their own personal anticipation as they trudged wearily up the stairs, knowing that our smiling faces awaited their return...ah...it was such happiness, that you could just sink your teeth into it and taste it and chew on it.

And its amazing how that association of love to home to people to love still continues, here in this dusty, rusty old flat by the beach. Dusty because nobody can clean it spotless like my sis, on one of her marathon weekend cleaning sessions, and rusty from all these many years of proximity to the Bay. All of which is beside the point. I love how my mornings start...when I walk out of the bedroom and see my mother's beatific smile, mouthing a cheery good morning. How the minute I brush my teeth, she starts preparing coffee. How I took over this process from her, to be a little more self reliant, but it just didn't taste as good as the cup she made. How she or Pops would leave the PC on for me, to indulge my weakness of sipping while surfing. How the view from the vantage of the computer table, of the greens of the trees, beyond the top of which you could spot a sliver of the beach, because of the emptiness in the horizon; I love the balcony I can walk onto everytime my phone rings with the voice of a friend, promising a heartful conversation, which can be had only in that idyllic setting. I love the view of the small Ganesha temple, from the kitchen balcony, the one that Pops unfailingly has a darshan of every morning, first thing after brushing his teeth, a routine I was privy to watching because of that one odd day in which I actually woke up early. :) I love that tiny kitchen, where my Mom draws border lines with the magic chalk, that will put our own border management to shame, to keep at bay the army of ants that will otherwise descend, to the destination of sweets and savories on the shelf; this kitchen where aloo roast is that cherished passport to time travel to the 90's when those leisurely Friday afternoon lunches, meant that we all sit together as a family on a mat on the carpeted floor, and fight for those last remaining potatoes. I love those lengthy conversations that I can now have with my mom while I sit on the floor of the kitchen and chop up the veggies for our lunch, as she readies everything else, the whole task of being there, made more pleasurable by the company.

But just as a long time ago, when the understanding finally crept in that home was a place to be tapped from within my own heart, so too do I realise now that any home that my parents' choose for themselves, to put the stamp of their personalities on, will evoke this same feeling of quiet euphoria in me. It will be the haven recreated from the fancies of my childhood, to give rest to my often conflicted adult heart. And as long as this roof remains standing, I will never need to go in search of a vacation home, or a getaway. The love within these four walls takes care of every weary bone in my body!

Love in action

Its been a week since we returned from our trip to Parthi and already the world has entered back into our system. But there are still many things we retain from it. My personal account of it will follow later, but what the boys have taken away from it has to be narrated.

We were at the station after our entire Parthi pilgrimage, waiting to board the train to Chennai at 10 PM at night. As we walked on the platform to the exact spot where coach B1 was likely to be stationed, R noticed a beggar asleep. He was lying on top of some newspaper carefully spread out, and next to him in a covered little bundle was his little baby. It was chilly Bangalore night, and the baby slept on the newspaper like its father, wrapped on top only by a very old and very dirty towel. Noticing this, R immediately asked me for a bedsheet that we were carrying. As I was finding a good clean one for him, another thought struck me. We had bought two very cute mini pillows to be used in darshans and in the room, and we had it handy outside too. And it seemed like a wonderful opportunity to help Winkie put his love into action. And to hopefully impress on him that the 5 human values were not just part of an SSE curriculum, but something that he could actively cultivate in life.

But there was one problem. It would not be very easy to convince him to give up his pillow, because he had grown very attached to it. He loved it. He slept on it and he took such good care of it. But we drew him close and softly told him the plight of that little baby lying there atop a newspaper, on a cold, dusty platform. He was resistant at first, pointing to the other pillow that was Thambi's. Next, he said that the blanket would be enough for the little one. But something in him began to soften as his heart connected to the need of that other individual, even as his mind pleaded to him of his attachment to his pillow. The conflict was on in full earnest, but he gathered the will to walk over with his father, to hand over the warm sheet and the soft pillow for that little baby. The father accepted it immediately and as we watched, he inserted the pillow softly under the child's sleeping head and covered him/her snugly with the sheet. Our hearts were full on seeing this, and I am afraid so was Winkie's, for big. fat tears spilled over as the pain of losing a beloved objected renewed itself with greater force. A big tight hug, lots of soothing words on the bigness of his action and encouraging words stopped the flow as he took in what had just taken place. I hope its a memory that will be strong in his heart and act as a beacon of inspiration for times when the self seems more important than seva.

In another 1/2 hour, his mama had arrived carrying a bag with tees for the boys. And as Winkie received his gift, we didn't miss a beat as we told him how quickly he had been rewarded for his kindness and his sacrifice.

A whole week after the fact and Thambi still remembers how you reach out your hands to the light of the arati and touch it to your eyes. Only, this extends not only to the light of the flame, but to just about anyone you may see, even on the street. An example : Last evening, as we were walking the streets on a shopping trip, and we passed a beggar with outstretched hands, calling out to us. Winkie went forward with the change in his hands and dropped it into his open palms, and our little copycat master did the same. The man was beyond happy to get so much of change and raised his hands in blessing for the boys. He held it over each one's head, blessing them individually. Mistaking that for the typical arati, Thambi, reached out as if taking the energy of the light and touching it to his eyes and he did this a couple of times, much to our amusement and I must say, delight. The moment was light and one that evoked laughter for cheerful innocence, but it didn't make me lose sight of the all important fact. That man's blessing was a divine fact that played itself out in front of our eyes, and Thambi's taking of his blessing in that form, innocently done, was the ultimate lesson of how we must all perceive one another. As individual flames of that same atmic truth. Love is all. All is One.