THE CLAY POT MIRACLE (a short story for you)

A really short story I penned on a lazy afternoon. Comment if you liked it and I shall pen more for you.

“I had lost it all for the sake of this damned pot.” Philip’s pained tenor hardened as he moved closer to me. “Go home, lady. Take this clay pot with you. I don’t want it back.” The sexagenarian turned away before I could admire his perfect, pearly-white teeth that struggled to outshine the zircon rosary around his crêpe-like neck.  I observed him carefully as he walked to the door. I knew that time was running out but suppressed the urge to check my watch. I took a deep breath and started counting in reverse under my breath. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five,” but stopped in mid-exhale as he jerked the basement door open. Nothing prepared me for what I saw next.

Around thirty pairs of sunken eyes stared at me from the shadowy basement. Fighting an innate urge to flee, I stared back. The eyes spoke brutal tales of an enslaved past and had me pinioned to the leather bar stool in Philip Calvarikal’s office. I almost dropped the clay pot on my lap as a stream of stares flooded the room. I must have let out a cry while groping inside my hip pocket, hoping to seek solace in my cell phone. Philip frowned. “There is nothing to be scared of, Regina. They are humans at heart and most certainly, deserve a second chance in life,” he said. Too startled to respond, I stole a glance at the intimidating eyes in front of me. In the well-lit office, I saw clearer, distinct features that held the eyes in. Philip’s “humans” now looked more like ordinary folks I meet and shake hands with everyday. They managed a drained smile, perhaps trying to prove they are as human as Philip claimed them to be. “You too deserve a second chance in life, Uncle,” I said, “and all of you as well”. Smiling back at the tall, brawny ex-convicts staring down at me, I added, “That is why I want you to have this clay pot.”

#

My earliest memories of Uncle Philip were from the hushed chatter that jazzed up tea-time conversations at a mere mention of his name or the village he came from, Vattapally. Though a quiet, unassuming village in Changanasseri, Vattapally was then home to a nosy, gullible breed of locals who seemed to know whatever there is to know about everything and everyone under the sun. Nevertheless, blame it on oversight, providence or the sheer naïveté in their nature, the locals knew absolutely nothing of the princely jewels that lay buried near the King’s Horse Stable where a hundred Arab stallions of the erstwhile Thiruvithamkoor (Travancore) monarchy had once been fed and watered. Neither did their curiosity stir when my family, the Calvarikals, bought this royal stable from the Maharaja of Travancore sometime before India won her independence.

Interestingly, whoever buried the jewels either on the sly or in accordance with royal orders, never returned to Vattapally to lay claim on it. Even if they had, I seriously doubt they would have been able to locate the jewels because what stands in place of the royal stable is the six-room Syrian Christian homestead my Grandpa built seventy years ago. Leaving out the man-made pond to the north-east of the stable, Grandpa had carefully taken apart and renovated the massive teak wood structure to build the ‘Calvarikal Home’. During the renovation, Grandpa had chanced upon several brass plaques, weaponry and tiger-tooth pendants that found a new role to play in our home. The jewels, however, remained untouched even by thought, as it lay cuddled within the earth’s womb ten feet below the pond. Not for long, though.

To this day, not one soul in Vattapally knows how, in the ghostly silence of the night in 1971, Grandpa’s first born – the handsome, twenty-five year old Philip Calvarikal who was awaiting ordination as a Catholic priest – had dug up the pond and unearthed a rotund clay pot full of jewels. Many claimed to have seen Uncle holding on to the clay pot that night, desperately trying to shield it from prying eyes. Others swore to have seen him smash the pot and swallow the jewels. The imaginative ones mused over the loud gasp heard across the village when the jewels vanished into thin air, lighting up the moonless sky with pure diamond dust.

My Grandma sadly remembered her fallen son who, with questioning eyes and quivering lips, wrestled with an inner demon to scream out his innocence. Grandma alone knew that Uncle had been a hesitant spectator to an act masterminded by his brother and my Dad, Clive Calvarikal. Grandma also knew that her sons had somehow made sense of a buried palm-leaf manuscript found near our property. But not even in their wildest dreams had any of them hoped to find treasure under the pond. That night, my Dad had vanished too, along with the clay pot and the jewels within.

#

“What did Clive do with the jewels?” Uncle Philip asked me, referring to the clay pot I had been holding on to ever since I walked into his tastefully-designed office near Thrissur’s famed Sri Vadakkumnathan Temple. Uncle continued, “Knowing him like I do, the devil would have sold every piece at the break of dawn. Why, what happened? Took off on a guilt-trip or what?” The sickening sneer in Uncle’s voice dug deep into the core of my being, threatening to devour every cell of my self-worth.

I felt sorry for the man, though. Sincerely regretful of the price Uncle had to pay for my Dad’s betrayal. All it took was a sinister night to turn a young man’s life topsy-turvy, denying him the priesthood he deserved and stigmatizing him overnight as a deceitful, selfish brat who never shared the jewels with the villagers in Vattapally. Everyone, except my Grandma, had disowned him. The seminary seriously doubted his inclination to accept priesthood. Fed up with the stomach-turning taunts, Uncle had eloped but despair seemed to follow him around like a scorned mistress. Until, he arrived at a crumbling settlement near Viyyur in Thrissur and came face to face with people who were in greater hopelessness than him.

Uncle’s unbearable despair finally broke up with him when he set up ‘St. Maximilian Geriatric Home for the Paroled’ – an initiative that provides good food, decent clothing and a loving shelter to elderly life convicts after they are released on compassionate parole. Perhaps here is where Uncle found his true vocation, tending to murderers, thieves and rapists incarcerated for longer than they could remember. With families who disowned them and an intolerant community that despised their freedom, these ex-convicts had nowhere to go, no one to call their own. By welcoming them to his abode with open arms, Uncle hoped to give them a well-deserved second chance in the sunset years of their life. And Uncle ended up gifting them the most beautiful feeling of “being wanted” – a sentiment he was denied throughout his adult life.

Uncle’s hysterical laugh ruffled my thoughts. “I know”, he boomed, “Clive found bones and ashes in the pot, didn’t he? Or was it cobras and scorpions? Sure serves him right for deserting me that night.” Heaving a woe-laden sigh Uncle moaned, “I had never felt so alone, scared and suicidal. I had lost it all to that evil night, to this damned pot, and all because I trusted your Dad.” Again his pained tenor hardened. “Why have you come looking for me after all these years?” Uncle questioned. 

I looked at my watch. Realizing I barely had two hours left to convince him before I boarded the next flight home, I said, “My Dad died last month holding this clay pot close to his heart. He wasted a lifetime trying to break it open and like you said, sell every jewel inside. He tried crushing it with a hammer, smashing it against his bedroom wall and even borrowed a giant pestle to hit the crap out of it. By the time Dad realized the pot is unbreakable, he had become a broken man himself. Greed devastated Daddy. Looking back, I think nothing could have fixed him except death. ” I paused to study Uncle’s reaction. Not a twitch etched his face.

“Go on.” Uncle ordered with a faint quiver in his voice.  My Dad’s dying wish resounded in Dolby Surround, pounding against the chambers of my heart: “Find Philip. Give it back!” Squeezing down a few drops of saliva I continued, “Dad had no idea where to find you. Well, no one did. It was his dying wish to give you back this clay pot.” Uncle laughed hysterically again, this time in higher decibels. “For what, lady? So that I too may die a broken man, trying to own what never was mine?” The truth in his words challenged every justification I had thought over before embarking on an uncertain search for my Uncle. He added with a tinge of scorn, “You are just like your Dad. Ruthless. You bring me this pot because it is of no use to you now. What good is an unbreakable pot even if it has treasures within, right?” I dared not nod in agreement for he had read my mind.

Gesturing with his chin at the ex-convicts now seated across the room, Uncle said, “You see them, Regina? See these gentlemen you got scared around a while ago? They chose the wrong path at one point of time. They got punished. Incarcerated. Years later, they tried to reclaim their lost lives. Sadly, no one wanted them around. Bet you know why. Because they were of no use to anyone, anymore! They were heartlessly tossed around just like this clay pot you are trying to get rid of.” Uncle paused to brush away a painful thought.

“At St. Maximilian, they are not unwanted, unbreakable, good-for-nothing clay pots. Their true worth has been discovered. The goodness within them has found release. And today they make full use of themselves to light up the lives around them. Do you get me, Regina?” Rendered momentarily voiceless, I tried to drag my gaze away from Uncle’s rising fury. “Look at me, Regina”, he fumed, “You know nothing about giving others a second chance. I will tell you how: it is by unearthing the goodness in them; by wiping away the dirt on the uncut gem they are within; by buffing every angle to bring out their true brilliance.” Uncle stretched back on his couch, exasperated by the sudden, unrestrained rush of emotions he had withheld for God alone knows how long. Averting my gaze, I watched his zircon rosary rise high and low with a pace that matched his breath.

At that instance, I realized it wasn’t my Uncle or the gentlemen at St. Maximilian who deserved a second chance. It is the clay pot I had been holding on to all this while. The unbreakable clay pot everyone had been clinging to, ever since it was dug up on that moonless night. Bending my knees and dropping down to the polished Kota Stone floor, I placed the clay pot at Uncle’s feet. Saying a prayer, seeking nothing but forgiveness, I got up and left St. Maximilian. Uncle was either too tired to protest or simply thankful I was out of sight. He remained seated, rolling the sparkling rosary beads between his fingers, thinking over each painful moment that had mined a void in his life.

#

I never thought I would hear from him again. I was wrong. Two days later, Uncle phoned. “Hello Regina, I would like you to come over to St. Maximilian. Can you make it?” I felt so happy hearing his voice that I did not think twice before booking an early morning flight to Thrissur. It was during the drive from the airport to Uncle’s abode that I mulled over why he would want to see me. Had he managed to break the pot? “Impossible”, I mumbled, my rationality mocking at the thought. Nothing short of a miracle could break that pot.

Uncle was waiting for me at his front door when the cab dropped me at St. Maximilian. Following his signal, I climbed up the concrete stairs to the terrace. Ben, the tallest, brawniest man I have ever seen off-screen, offered me tea and a ceramic dish lined with sizzling banana fritters. “Ben’s a great cook,” Uncle said, “and had he not robbed that bank, this antique fellow would have made a fortune as India’s Top Chef.” We three burst into a hearty laugh. Enjoying the unexpected hospitality and the warmth of the afternoon sun, I concluded one of the ex-convicts had somehow cracked open that pot. “How did you do it?” As if in response, Ben came over, placed a bronze cloche platter on the table and dramatically lifted the lid.

 I thought he had served us the sun. Such was the dazzle from the mound of bewitchingly beautiful jewels. Every ray of light rushed to touch a gemstone’s cheek and then skipped back in delight with a thousand-fold brilliance. I squinted and noticed the powdery remains of the clay pot, lying surrendered beside the shimmering pile. I let out a laugh and blurted, “It’s a miracle. What did you do?” Uncle smiled, “Nothing.” Pointing at the sun above, he continued, “He did it.” I frowned without wiping off my smile.

 “Regina, this is no ordinary clay pot. It’s made of solar-energized clay that turns rock-hard upon human contact but swells and crumbles under the full light of the sun.” I stumbled a few steps back and whispered with a heavy heart, “It’s that simple?” Uncle replied, “Yes. If only Clive had the good sense to bring the damned pot to light, he would not have died a broken man.” For the first time I saw tears streaming down Uncle’s cheeks, diving down to his chest and drowning on his linen shirt.

I cried myself to sleep that night, wishing my Dad had never run away into the darkness with the clay pot. I wondered hopelessly why no one helped him see the great light that could miraculously reveal the hidden treasures and save, not just him but every fellow being on this planet. Nevertheless, I knew Dad’s soul will be resting in peace from now on, for the princely jewels have been given a second chance to reach out to those in need and heal lives, communities and the world, at large.

Much Ado About Lies

Somebody once asked me if i have ever lied in my life. Still can't figure out why he chose me for the cleverly carved interrogation !

Well, yes, i have lied; but only out of sheer desperation. In my early years of growing up, the hapless victim of my lies was an elderly priest. I must have been around 8 then. It was mandatory for Catholic students to go for confession twice a week. I couldn't recollect enough sins to fill up one session let alone two. So where was i going to hunt for more? I finally ended up saying what the girl sitting next to me was going to confess. The priest came to know about it; but instead of a severe sermon, he befriended me. From then on, confessions became a heart-to-heart chat between a jovial 60-year old and a talkative 8-year old. We became close friends and enjoyed each other's company for 4 years till he left for his heavenly abode. Since then he became my guardian angel and has been watching over me from above and every time i spin a tall tale during confession someone tugs at my ear and whispers "now, don't you lie, my little girl".

I'm a grown up lady now and life's myriad situations leave me with no other option but to blurt out a spontaneous little lie even when i'm not in the confession box. My ears have grown bigger now, with all the tugging and whispering and i think it's time i told my guardian angel to stop pulling my ear and start pulling my hair just to make those brown, curly strands a few inches longer.

I Cried……Ask Me Why?

It must have been eons but often seems like yesterday. The day I shivered in cold sweat, fumbled for the right words, cried for my existence and let out a 1000 decibel scream in the hope of winning back the world I thought was mine.

Never did I feel so desperately lonely, deprived and heart-broken, all at the same time. Never did I want to pull so far away from hands that were trained to grip and grab. Never before did I force myself to play dead, when all I wanted was to stay alive.

How else do you think a few-seconds-old infant would feel after being manhandled and hung upside down by a bunch of nincompoops who couldn’t distinguish my ass from a football? “Hey! That is my private part you idiot! I don’t want you touching it before I reach puberty.” My words fell on dead ears a couple of years back in that sophisticated maternity ward.

It all began after my parents began honeymooning and the doctors fixed my mom’s delivery date on May 19, deciding between themselves to make me a Taurean, when I so much wanted to be something that is prefixed with “gem”. I loved growing up and drew my own sketches of the face that whispered sweet nothings and sang me lullabies in Raag Kaanada. I liked it most when mom fought with dad for not bringing her Andhra pickles or taking her out to watch Dharmendra’s latest hit. Much to my delight, dad was no longer in mom’s good books and I had her all to myself.

My peace of mind was short-lived though. The dreaded date, May 19, was fast approaching and the doctors expected my whole-hearted co-operation in vacating the warm, cozy premise I had so fallen in love with. Well, I decided to make it clear who’s the boss. May 19 came and went. A week flew by with me refusing to budge an extra inch. The doctors got alarmed and put my mom through a whole series of tests without even seeking my permission. “Hey, there are laws for citizens in the womb world and my lawyer is due on May 30.” A few more hours passed and then they decided to do to my mom what they did to Caesar’s mom and got away with.

Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! That was mom, not me! (Now you know from whom I inherited the 1000 decibel scream). Mom became hysterical much to everyone’s dismay and would not let the blade touch her porcelain skin. Nor would I. “Don’t worry, mom! I won’t let them hurt you. Here I come…………………..!”

Finally I was born into this world, like a true Geminian. Full of gaiety and pride on the warmest month of May.

Every year since, same day, same time, I have been reliving this moment of my birth. I have learnt to forgive the doctors and forget their torturous deeds as I cried for what I was about to loose, not knowing that a whole load of gifts awaited me in another part of my world…..ones that were mine to keep forever.

The gift of being born into this world was greater than the moments I spent in my mother’s womb. The gift of beholding her beautiful face was sweeter than her whisperings my ears were so used to. The gift of being with her was eternal than the feeling of growing inside of her.

Like an infant, we all wail in vain for the smile of today when life beckons us to the laughter of tomorrow. Cry, if you may; it can smudge your eye makeup though. But learn when to stop and budge that extra inch. Vacate today and welcome yourself into a better tomorrow.

HUMOUR SENSE & MEN

What has a good sense of humour got to do with men?
A lot, for most women!

Don’t believe me; I was hardly into a fruitful relationship with men to know if they have any sense at all. But if you go by the advertorials and the strictly “ladies only” gossip café, you will have enough reason to believe that a good sense of humour ranks high in a woman’s list of qualities for her macho man.

My dad once confided in me about breaking into hilarious laughter every time mom watched Mr. Bean, wondering what it is about Rowan that tickled her humour bone. There are others who swear by Google Search Engine to get hold of 101 jokes to crack on their first date, in the hope of making it the best date ever. My friend’s brother Rony, tied the knot recently and was shocked to learn on his wedding night that his bride had always dreamed of marrying a guy who makes her laugh non-stop. Rony, in his true pragmatic style, tried tickling his bride the whole night, much to her dismay and his delight. I know Rony well enough to understand that his sense of humour is limited to an occasional uproar when someone slips on a banana peel or a poodle poops on its owners lap. Thanks to God, Rony’s bride has taught herself to live with a humourless husband while appreciating his other superior senses.

If I were to trust the sad stories of my male colleagues, the poor things hardly know what exactly this sense of humour is or why women feel naturally attracted to men who make them laugh.

Maybe it goes like this. It’s quite normal to think you are enjoying yourself when you are laughing. You feel good after watching a comedy show and yearn to see it again for that feel-good moment. The same goes with men. A woman feels good after spending time with a man who makes her laugh and will pine for his company in the hope of reliving that moment of side-splitting enjoyment. Women thus reach a conclusion that marrying a guy with a good sense of humour assures marital bliss filled with laughter and joy. At this juncture, I can’t help wondering why women never thought about marrying clowns? (not that they don’t make a handsome pair).

So, is it only women who feel good in the company of people with above-average humour sense? Don’t we all, old and young alike, long for a little laughter in our lives?

Of course, we do. And this means humour has nothing to do with men. Yippee! Guys, you can now heave a sigh of relief. Humour has everything to do with the emotion it evokes in each one of us. In the case of women, they enjoy humour most when it comes from a good-looking man and vice-versa.

Now does that mean women with a great sense of humour rank high in a man’s list?
Nah! Men have other things on mind when they see a woman. Don’t believe me

My Santa Claus is a Muslim

Like most kids and every adult, I never quite believed in Santa Claus. The reason is simple. He never stuffed my stockings with goodies or lined my window sill with reindeers; and since we didn't have a fireplace at home, Santa didn't bother to climb down our chimney either.

When i turned seven, i began to hate Santa. This old man had time for all my friends (who didn't have a fireplace at home) and even kept expensive gifts under their christmas tree. But he seemed to be ignoring poor me for no reason i could think of. It wasn't the gifts that bothered me for i got more than plenty from my parents and cousins. What really hurt was listening to my class mates' tall tales of Santa bringing them this and that and all things nice!! I just couldn't stand being the only child Santa never visited.

"Why don't you write Santa a letter". That's what mom said when she saw me returning home all red and teary-eyed.

I did. I wrote the most horrendous 5 page letter to Santa Claus, crying out the pain he caused me and his totally inconsiderate attitude towards a young child who just longed to be in the good books of Santa. Still crying, I ran to the roof-top of our 15 storey apartment and stuck the letter on a tall pole, to be carried away by the winds to Santa's place in the North Pole.

Two days later was Christmas Day. No, as it usually happens in movies, Santa didn't succumb to my threats and bring me gifts to boast of. And i didn't care either. After all, Santa doesn't exist and my friends are dumb enough to believe the gifts they got are from Santa. After the usual round of traditions on Christmas morning, i ran around the house and played with my cousins. The door bell rang. No, it wasn't Santa. There was no one. Just a brightly colored envelope on the door mat.

Wow! Got one more card to hang on my christmas tree! Hey wait, it wasn't a card but a letter in beautiful handwriting.......signed by none other than Santa Claus?????!!!!!!!!

I thought it was a prank but the letter was genuine and had all the answers to my innocent queries to Santa. How could that be??? No one saw me sending that letter. It must have flown off to another neighbourhood but who could be so sweet enough to reply with the most inimitable charm that only Santa Claus is believed to have. I showed it off to my family and they were happy to see me smiling at least.

For every christmas, new year and birthdays after that, i received long loving letters from my dear Santa. As i grew up, i began to feel the letters were being send by my mom or friends. But i liked the mystery element and enjoyed every bit of it. On my twelfth christmas, i didn't get the usual letter from Santa but a huge gift, wrapped in shiny red paper and colored ribbons.

Now my parents eyes started to pop-out. Who on earth could be behind all this? I didn't care and soon proceeded to open the gift. It was a life-size Santa Claus doll that sang "Jingle bells, Jingle bells, jingle all the way". Oh, i just loved it. Suddenly a man appeared at the door front and smiled at me. "Aslam-aleikum", he gestured. It was our Muslim neighbour, Mohammed, who stayed on the penthouse atop our apartment. Seeing me still clung to the huge Santa, he beamed "I'm glad you liked it; it took me 2 years to find such a doll in the market?"

"You bought this????" i gasped. "And the letters?? Did you write them???? But why??? Why did you have to go through so much trouble for me????" He just nodded and smiled.

"I read your letter to Santa", he stopped nodding and spoke. "I felt i had to do something to stop the hatred that was growing in your little heart for a legendary saint who exists only in our hearts. This is my way of saying, 'Never hate anyone; love is what makes life worth living"

Thank you Mohammed. You are my Santa. Wish everyone could have a heart like yours. A Muslim heart, perhaps!!

Naam mein kya rakha hain?

For those of you who thought the title was in French, please be enlightened by the rough translation, read as "What's in a name?"

I'm definitely full of harsh, sour words for parents who christen their children with multiple names. These days, the name of a child is subject to change based on locality, people and emotional state of mind. What may be a decent, 3-word long name at school will soon transform into a 3 letter abbreviation fit for a pet, the moment a child reaches home. The parents and grandparents each have their favourite names for the kid while the neighbourhood aunties try to figure out a new name they find appealing.

My own cousin's daughter has a lovely name. Nisari.

It is a combination of the saptha swaras Ni, Sa and Ri. She was named by her Dad hoping the child would follow his footsteps and grow up to be a fine singer. But as luck would have it, Nisari does not even sing in the bathroom and has little interests in any of the art forms except, body-piercing, of course!

Her Dad regrets that he named her Nisari and now calls her Rin. Maybe after RIN Supreme Sakthi detergent powder, i'm not quite sure! Her mom (and my cousin) calls her Niri, which during the course of the day, has every possibility of changing into "Naaaarri" (translated as @@****@*@%) , thanks to Nisari's naughty deeds at home.

The other week, i was invited to Nisari's Annual School Day Celebrations. She had won the second prize in the Fancy Dress contest. Good girl! At least she has inherited her mom's bad style of dressing and put it to good use as well.

Imagine my surprise and pain, when the Chief Headmistress rumbled out the name Ms. Bethsheba Alphonsa Clive from the jarring mic system and in walked my niece with a smile, giggle and frown, all rolled into one strange expression. I looked at my cuz and asked point-blank, "When did you change her name?" 'Oh, that's her official name in the school', was the expressionless reply i got from cuz dear.

We are often concerned that our well-brought-up children are growing up into multiple personalities (or schizophrenics). Well, how will they not, when you give them meaningless names to suit your whims and fancies???

A child should be called by a single name and taught to live up to the meaning of that name. Nisari may not be a singer in her life. But she is artistic and appreciates music. She could be moulded to listen to her Dad's songs and may be include a few of his background scores for the next fancy dress contest.

Believe me, there is a lot to a name than what meets the ear. It is the child's first identity of being a part of the world, community and family he/she is born into.

I still haven't recovered from the shock of discovering that my niece had a totally alien name i didn't even know existed. And to add more salt to misery, my cousin is deep in thought trying to name the new kitty that walked into her home a few days back. I'm just keeping my fingers crossed she doesn't call it Mickey Katrina Paw!

Stopped searching?

We all search, don't we. It's become almost like a habit.

We search the net; we search the drawer, the cupboard; we search the discotheque; we search for partners; we search for road signs; we search for literally everything except our heart.

You can justify that something that's so close to you and is the reason for your being alive, needs no searching. It is evidently there, all safe and sound, within you. Okay, i'll buy that theory.

What if you have become so used to not searching for your heart that you kinda become blind to what's happening right in there. Oh please! I'm not talking about the complicated circulation system. You know what i mean. Guess you're not stupid enough not to understand that. (If you are, then please leave this blog right NOW!!!) Just kidding! Even morones are welcome.

Well, where was I.......ah yes, about searching our hearts. When was the last time you actually took some time off to SEARCH www.yourheart.com? I know when i did. Last night. While i was waiting for a certain someone to tell me i look great. The wait seemed forever and my patience, as usual, was waning! I searched my heart for something.....anything.....! I think my heart was right! Told me to get up from the couch and make a cup of tea for the certain someone. I did. And whoa, i got the compliment i wanted and much much more that is outside the guidelines of this blog to be posted here. No, no don't even imagine it! :-)

Happy searching! Let me know if your search for your broken heart, hurt heart, happy heart, anxious heart or just blank heart was fruitful or not. Okay? See you soon!