Young and beautiful

All I remember is her big brown eyes and prominent eyelashes which eventually got passed on to me. So many unanswered questions. When marriages built on youthful idealism fall apart, it can crush your faith in life. She was a rebel. Here is an unfinished poem that I wrote for her:

I waited for the sunshine that never came

Forever cloudy I tried to peak at some light

My Mom, a glimpse would set the storm aside

Where have you been? Where are you now?

To calm my nerves I wish I had a lady

Not a lover but a mother…

                                            Her face reminiscent of some deity with her head held high as she waltzed on with elegance. She always had a youthful exuberance. She outshone almost everybody. The cries for chocolate and food, she calmed me like no other. In an age so young, I lost my mother to a social creation, a divorce. Today all I have is a Facebook page and a glitchy cursor and all I can is leave a text to her. But what should I write? Will she acknowledge me as her son? The strength crumbles under my weak heart. I have but one choice and that is cut the power to my laptop and sit and weep till I can no more and am able to confront my fears. Seeing your own mother on Facebook after years is unbearable. The phrase, “you look just like your mother” haunts me.

                                        I wonder if she also remembers us, me and dad. I wish she knew how sick I was few days back. I wish she knew we needed her.

AGED AND WRINKLED HISTORY

My neighbors and I, more like a family I’d say, we are unable to keep your heritage, your legacy, your greatness built and bestowed in the past. We are apologetic, but we have aged enough. Modernity isn’t a crime, but to kill us in the process would take away much. I have been home to pigeons, to people, to souls, I have been a part of this progress. At the least I hope to see a few more years.

Even after all the Metro Rail constructions in the area, the heritage buildings around Poonamalle High Road are yet to see some repair. In this stretch of our heritage buildings the worst hit was the 104-year-old Ripon building, a part of which is the Greater Chennai Corporation. In 2011, the tunneling procedure began for the metro rail by Chennai Metro Rail Limited (CMRL), stemming from which the initial cracks to our Ripon were seen. According to A.S. Murugan, the Executive engineer of Chennai Corporation the mending process had begun but cracks appeared a year ago. A more concerned Murugan said that there was a repairing process that had started just about a week ago and the newer cracks that continued to expand were supposedly controlled.

The building was made of mere bricks and lime mortar, repairing it would need special structural strength that could be implemented while executing that through the use of steel plating and lime grouting. The building is irreparable using concrete and plaster. It has aged beyond modern methods. Its old well-based foundation has been shaken now, cracks run like wrinkles. The tunnelling into the ground had destabilized its foundation upon arrays of terracotta wells built with solid rubble.  Its joints of parapets, handrails, windows, and the ionic and Corinthian style composite columns, all are hurt, the cracks are heavy to carry. The front and middle, its ten thousand square meters have cracks all over.

“Where the crack starts from directs to the reason behind its development,” said Thirupurasundari Sevvel, an architecture planner and heritage consultant. She said that these cracks as structural continuous cracks coming from the building foundation and that the windows and false roofing are vulnerable points and that’s why they are most susceptible to developing continuous cracks. It is a sad picture to see this heritage building becoming unsafe for the surrounding buildings and human lives.

Whereas, the corporation’s Chief Engineer (buildings) N Mahesan defended the pride of Ripon building by saying that these cracks are superficial and not threatening to the building structure. “There is no strict law saving the heritage buildings in Chennai unlike Kolkata or Delhi,” said Mr. Murugan. The metro rail authorities are looking into the damage and the following effects.

Pointing to the fact that the metro rail planning did not consider damaging such significant heritage sites Ms. Sevvel said, “It was easier for the government to place it there. 60% of the metro railway is in heritage spots and 40% are being placed near parks and other public spaces and government owned buildings.” But there have been attempts by the government to formalize and take into account the heritage structures of the city. The 2010 Heritage Conservation Committee was formed to scrutinize all heritage buildings of Chennai. But they did not follow up after one report, complained Ms. Sevvel. Regarding urban construction Justice Padmanabhan committee’s report is supposed to be followed by government offices. The committee had mapped all heritage buildings and precincts (cluster of heritage structures) and listed heritage buildings part by part. Ms. Sevvel believes that the government does not adhere to what is to be done at the very basic level. She went on to suggest having an urban planning commission intervene in all such city projects in order to save all such Indo-Saracenic colonial architecture that Chennai is famous for.

Ripon building wasn’t the only one to fall prey to modernity. Its more reputable neighbor, the red-bricked Victoria Public Hall had faced the same fate as it did.  Age didn’t let it stand the torture of modern development. Designed in Romanesque style, with arcaded verandas supported by Corinthian stone columns, it is a relic of the cultural past of Madras Presidency hosting important public meetings and theatrical productions after being founded in the 1880s.

Yes I am an introvert!!!!!!

I am misunderstood on a daily level. All that counts as being a part of the happening, I am not one of it. I am, but a different perspective on everything. Hello, I am an introvert. I can’t possibly join you for a laugh but sure can share a smile. To us introverts, the world is pretty colourful. We don’t spill colours. It is a picture we draw unknowingly. I have always avoided gatherings and rather sat on a lone bench in a park like a lunatic. But I am certainly not a lunatic. I just value my space. There are not a lot of friends I have but I am blessed with a couple, they cherish this nature of mine. I am a feeling which is frustrating but not short-lived, enriching in time, a reservoir of minuscule in our daily lives and how they matter.  Sometimes I am found shuffling through some David Baldacci book and notice what’s happening around me. I see people giving me that ‘such a lonely little creep’ look. I am used to it now.

I grew up in convent schools where discipline was imprinted on me. I was only nine when my father left home. Of course that includes me and my mother. I waited by the door, prayed for a father who never came. The bond, the sense of ripping apart was too loud a noise. The world in me plummeted and it shrivelled me. Growing up in a convent school, discipline had a different definition to me. I am that sort of a person who thinks before speaking, creates before destroying and it still feels empty like NGC 6503 amidst thriving galaxies. 

                        

An Artist

An artist, driven by innovation, gifted, rare like a dimpled chick, they said. Bullshit. I don’t know what I was thinking when I sat on my bed with my unfinished paintings. A blank look on my face as I gawked at my easel. My unfinished glass paintings, seemed to mock at me for leaving them alone for years. I was a coward I guess. Full of dust, my unfinished paintings covered in white sheets had a corpse-like appearance. A strange smell. Musty would be a wrong word to explain it. I was so busy to be successful, I gave up on my passion, my love, my life. I murdered my skills. That pain. The trapped souls in these paintings, rotten for years, traumatized, dying to be free, waiting for the brush strokes and care. Eyes began to moisten. I began to remove the sheets from them. The last thing I wanted to do was a broken glass painting. I still remember the number of times I had hurt myself working with these. Bleeding, I didn’t stop. It was addictive. Pain could never keep me away from working with these. But growing up surely did. It took me so far from my passion and my creative side that I still can’t find my way back to where I started. My voice chokes, my hands are not tender anymore, and my permanent dark circles have made themselves quite comfortable around the contours of my eye. More than 5 years....and I saw myself packaging myself into a desired product as per my parents' wish, or something much bigger. They said an artist died before taking birth. Yes, no or maybe. Sitting in this room after so long made me curse myself for being lured to ambition. Portraits hung across the wall and all had my name written on it. It reminds me of how lame it was for me to put my signature on each of my creations. I never believed in it. Now I know its value. As time flies, lame things rise up to your priority list. I couldn't stop but guffaw when my eyes met with my old love. I found my guitar as I had left it, at the extreme end of the room, dusty and still wearing that Adidas cap and ‘IN YOUR FACE’ t-shirt. The tee had a cartoon character with its pants down, showing its buttocks to the audience. A brave act from its part. I used to wear that tee when I was small. I wish I could go back and freeze those moments and never let go. I wish to be a hero of my own. I wish to finish those unfinished works. My paintings. My name on each painting is resplendent with dust now, not literally but a permanent dust on my identity. I know it will take time but I can start over again but I don’t know whether it is going to be the same again. I always take a short tour to my former world and I try to find my former self there. I scream out loud but I can’t find myself there. I hope I will someday. As I turned off the lights and was about to leave the room, something struck me – a doll I made from a piece of wood. That was my first work of art. A girl who was never scared of working with a knife when she was a kid is now scared to hold a paint brush. How ironic! Giving up on dreams is like having sex with your pillow the entire life. Never lock your skills in a showcase for people will admire for once and then forget with time. I would suggest let them be wild and free. 

                                         

                                              “You can’t blend in when you’re born to stand out.”

                                                                        - Ryan Buchanan