Vishu Kani

For more than one reason, Vishu is my most favourite festive occasion. It unearths my dormant spiritual instincts, combines them with the ordinariness of daily life, transforms and materializes as the glorious Vishu Kani.

The sentiments that this day evoke in me surpasses that of the best mountain and ocean views I have seen. Love, peace, forgiveness, faith and every other sublimity that one is capable of surges and runs over.

Incidentally, it was on this day in 2017 that I completed the accompanying painting too.

Desire is known to manifest itself in different forms. What made me aspire to make a full-fledged mural of the ‘Ananathashayanam’ with no guidance or trained skill is still a mystery to me. I was probably obsessed with the immensity of the image and its many connotations.

It was initially a post-retirement project that I had thought I would undertake whenever we’d return to India. But I guess the impatience got the better of me and I got down to doing it one fine day. It was a huge venture for the novice, untrained artist in me, and by the time I had finished the outline, I knew I was committing myself to a life-long relationship with cervical pain.

What followed was a prolonged period of sun, shade and shadows. Determination would suddenly turn to frustration, hours of animated action would wind down to aching fatigue, my love for colours would gray now and then, and I began to wonder if I had bitten more than I could chew. Then came a long hiatus, of more than a year, after dad went away. Months of inertia followed. There was no activity on the canvas. It was as if I had lost touch with life itself.

All the while, the partially painted canvas with swathes of empty space stood in silence, gathering dust. The divinity that I had envisaged in it waited to be realized. It was as if the universe knew that I would return one day and complete it. Not for my sake, but for its own sake.

It was late March of 2017. Guilt that had begun to build up and gnaw at my heart made me gravitate towards the unfinished task once again. Guilt then gave way to fixation. Spurred by a sudden, irrepressible urge to see the cosmic form emerge from the canvas, I set myself a date. 15th April, which was only two weeks away.

I worked like a maniac, wrecking every muscle in my neck and arm. There was only one objective. The Lord must reveal from the canvas in all His splendour on Vishu day. I remember even getting cheeky with Him and saying, ‘If You want this to be done, if you want to be realized, chip in. I can’t accomplish it by myself.’

Of course, He wanted it to be done, didn’t He? He wanted to be realized.

On the eve of Vishu, very late in the night, with not an iota of strength left in my limbs, I signed it off. My eyes were too tired to even appraise or appreciate the grandeur of it all, but the heart knew. The mission had been accomplished.

In the morning, when I opened my eyes there He was, revealed! My greatest ever Vishu Kani at home. I sank to my knees and wept. And I laughed. Then I wept a little more. ‘What goodness did I do to merit this joy, God?’ It was surreal.

A few days later, someone asked me if the painting was up for sale. I replied politely, ‘No, it isn’t. How can I sell my soul?’

This Vishu morning, as I stood gazing at it, absorbing the abundance it represented, I teared up again. There was no painting nor me in that moment. Only a vastness into which everything devolved and became Nothing.

The Photograph

She was unlike any other tourist I had seen around here. I had met her at our street shop that sells souvenirs and beach dresses, and had taken an instant liking for her. Not because she didn’t haggle much, but because she smiled at me as soon as our eyes had met. ‘What is your name? Can I take your picture?’ she asked through her smile, as I handed her the change. I was pleasantly surprised. My first instinct was to say, ‘no’, but I ended up saying ‘yes’. I have been taught to be cautious with tourists, you see. But this one seemed different. I eyed around to make sure mother hadn’t returned from her break. She wouldn’t have liked me getting friendly with tourists. ‘Why do you want to take my picture?’ I asked the woman bashfully, suddenly becoming aware of my seedy clothes and unkempt looks. ‘Because I like your smile and I want to take it back with me. Here, give me a good pose.’ Taking my permission for granted, she stepped back a few feet and began to click. I felt like a film star. I had never posed in front of a camera. Hands on the hips. Face cupped in my palms. A tilt of the head. A half of a smile. I struck them all. When she was done, she showed me the photographs. ‘Do you like them? Er…you didn’t tell me your name,’ she said. ‘Lakshmi.’ I didn’t say anything about the pictures. I thought I looked comical in the poses and nothing like a film star. I wanted to ask her if she could remove them from her camera. Before I could speak, she turned towards the sea and peering through the camera, took a few pictures of it. She looked into the distance again, as if she was conversing with the horizon and clicked more. I had seen scores of men and women do this. Capture the sunset. It was something I had never understood. I wondered what was so special about it. I mean, it is just sun, setting. Something that turns day into night. Nothing more. ‘What are you taking photos of, didi?’ I snuck up from behind and asked. ‘The sunset,’ she said, her eyes flicking between the camera and the sea. ‘Why do you take photos of the sunset? What will you do with it?’ I almost meant to say, it is so pointless to take pictures of an everyday thing. ‘I love taking photos. I store my memories of the places I visit and the beautiful people I meet in them.’ My eyes wandered lazily to the spot of deep orange that was gradually dissolving in the sea. I deliberated on what she had just said – ‘memories of the places I visit and the beautiful people I meet…’ Like a miracle, a thought occurred suddenly. I asked excitedly, tucking my ghoongat behind my ears, ‘Am I beautiful people? Is that why you took my photo too?’ ‘Yes, you are beautiful. Very beautiful. Like the sunset. That’s why I took your photo,’ she affirmed, patting my cheek and giving me a light hug. ‘How old are you, Lakshmi?’ she asked fondly, preparing to leave. ‘Thirteen.’ As she packed her bag and walked into the lights spilling from the wayside shacks, I called out from behind. ‘Didi, will you remember me?’ ‘Forever,’ she said, waving at me. As I waved back, I knew – the sunsets will never be the same again to me.

My Lucky Red Beads

From a very young age, I have had an eye for home décor. Even in the small company quarters where I grew up, I used to improvise things and put them up as living room embellishment. Our pockets didn’t allow elaborate furnishing or ornamentation for a long time, in fact it remained so for several years even after I came to the Gulf. But the taste didn’t melt away, and I used whatever we had at our disposal to add glamour to our interiors. Our first centre and side tables in Muscat were cartons wrapped in colourful bed spreads. Show pieces were cheap stuff that I showcased like souvenirs from faraway lands. Slowly I began to collect curios that would make for decent living-room trimmings. Nothing lavish or outlandish, but cute little things on display that could elevate our home from being a mere four walls to a happy, harmonious living space. A small paradise that paraded things from sea shells that I picked to vases and figurines that I purchased. But things are not always as pretty as we perceive. It takes no time for the lens to shift and a charming picture to become distorted. It was the festive season of 2008 and we had invited a few friends home for dinner. One of them had a two year old, eager to reach out to all that were on display. The mother who was struggling to keep her little one’s hands off them suddenly said to me, ‘your house is not child friendly.’ I took a moment to gather my response, and said gently, ‘Yes, no children here. So we can afford to keep it this way.’ Not child-friendly. The phrase stuck with me for some unknown reason. Not in a bitter, rueful way, but there was something unsettling about the way it was uttered. Years later now, I have a two year old next door. Our house is still littered with bric-a-brac of various kinds. But little Aarav has his favourite thing. MANJADI KURU (called lucky red seeds). There is nothing else that draws his curiosity. The seeds that I have placed in front of a Krishna ensemble is the only thing he will lay his hands on when he is here. As soon as I open the door, Aarav barges in and darts straight to the brass crucible of manjadi. He runs his little hands in it, laughs with mirth and lisps excitedly, “manjadi, manjadi.’ Now and then, he runs around and returns to the red seeds as if it was where his soul lay. We caution him not to spill them. Yet a few fall on the floor as he holds them in his tiny fist. He picks them and puts them back dutifully. And the childish amusement continues. ‘Baby Krishna!’ I exclaim inwardly as I watch the spectacle with unbridled joy and amazement. One must not strive to explain such happenstances. So I just soak in the emotion it evokes until the end of play time. I am now ‘manjadi aunty’ to Aarav. And every time I open the door and let him in, I hum silently, ‘Swagatham Krishna, Sharanagatham Krishna.’ The lens has shifted again. The house that was once described as ‘not child friendly’ has now become the Lord’s favourite play area. Blessings and grace don’t come in prescribed forms, do they?

(P.S: For those uninitiated, Lord Krishna is believed to have a special love for manjadi seeds. Hence it is kept in all Krishna temples across Kerala. )