Room to Write… Day 2.

Thanks to shri, I have been writing more often. She has been passing along writing exercises to me and I have been working on them and passing it back for her scrutiny. The first exercise turned out to be a highly personal one. The second one is what I last worked on. Here goes…

Begin with the phrase “I remember” and start writing. It doesn’t matter if you stick with one memory or list several. You can retrieve memories from as far back as childhood (past lives!) to as recently as yesterday. If you get stuck, just keep repeating the phrase “I remember,” in writing, until something else forms in your consciousness. Don’t even be concerned with the authenticity of the memory. Just record whatever comes to you. Don’t stop until you have filled two pages.

I remember the smell on your skin, I remember everything, I remember…’ sang Bryan Adams one night in Bombay. Not such a big fan but I remember going into rhapsodies over music, even Bryan Adams. Had this crazy idea that we must do a fashion show to ‘The Only thing that looks good on me … is you!’. Featuring K and me and many others.. in weird, crazy clothes and jewellery and shoes and make-up. No pressure to look good on the ramp since the idea is to look funky and cool and don’t-careish. I remember cool nights, sorry warm nights in Bombay. I remember wishing how it’d feel like that song from Mausam, ‘Jaadon ki narm dhoop aur kisi bhi pahaad par…’ Some lines were about the night, I think. I remember the smell of the earth, warm and welcoming. Well, I remember the smell of the earth especially when the train enters Kerala. The scent assails the senses. I remember the small kids running along the train, waving their hands in warm welcome. I almost felt like some kind of a prodigal daughter. Some homecoming and it continued for 10 odd years. I remember walking to the library, holding my Muttacchan’s hand. He so tall, me so small. I remember him introducing me to all the staff members, so proud was he of me. Wonder what could a 5-year old have achieved that could have made her grandfather so proud? I remember him calling me Gulshi. Nobody does, not any more. Nobody ever did. I remember hot summer afternoons, with a fan whirring above and the sunlight rising in waves from the ground. I remember the postwoman, in her brown saree, dutifully delivering letters from here and beyond. I remember writing to my Muttachhan regularly. He gave me the best tip ever, ‘Write so that the receiver feels as though you’re sitting right next to him’. I’ve consciously or subconsciously adopted that style of writing. I remember all my childhood memories, some stronger than the others. I remember scents, sounds, tastes… Spicy sambar, hot paalada pradavan, jasmine, sandalwood paste, many others. I remember weddings, birthdays, festivals. Silk skirts, flowers, feasts, long siestas, temple bells, elephants, conchshells, drums, smell of gunpowder. I remember the sounds of Pooram. It’s been a long time since I saw Pooram. My most hated cum most loved festival. I remember the feeling of pride bursting through my chest and the choked feeling in my throat. I remember the night we spent at Guruvayoor, watching the Kathakali performance. I remember the Kathakali performance at Nehru Science Centre. It was Nalacharitham. Oh god, how passionate it was! The ambience, the story, the brilliant performance, the vocals.. I became a Kathakali fan that time. A die-hard one, my Dad’s daughter to the T. I remember the sounds of the temple, the river, the roads, the huge buses, the pretty women, the library… the loveliest place in the whole wide world. Home.