When do I realize?

The day was so sunny that I could hear the evening heat whispering through the cracks of the cement flooring in front of the house. Closing the gate behind, I walked to the near by paddy field.

It was the month of harvest and the mixed smell of cut grass and paddy filled the air. That smell took me back to years back to make me a five year old boy hanging to his Grandma's sarees.

"Grandma, what's that smell?"

"What smell?"

"Something so strange and pungent..."

"Oh...That's the smell of cut grass and paddy"

"Then why didn't you notice that at first?"

"That's the wail of the grass as their dreams are cut off suddenly. Only children notice their wail, because they are good at heart". She caressed my hair and walked.

The totally puzzled face of a small boy just nodded.

Still I get puzzled on reaching this place, but for a different reason. Why would have she told that to a small boy of only five?

As usual with all these questions and memories in mind I was walking through the paddy field and stopped before the blue gate. The calling bell switch near the gate.




She came out in her thick spectacles, big half sleeved shirt of her brother with it's sleeves folded up and a black skirt. Except for the color of the shirt and skirt, this combination never changed. Even the blank expression on her face!

We both went to her room in the first floor. Looking at the opened books on her table and flipping the pages of some other, I stood there.

"Do you remember the last time you made a phone call?" With out looking at me she asked.

"Last Wednesday... ". The answer was momentary. I turned my whole body towards her to ask a series of questions. Without giving me next chance to ask she told,

"A three minute call...."

That stopped me from asking all other questions. As the conversation was changing to 'Then what?' 'Anything else?' 'Nothing more' kind and a few humming from both ends, I ended the phone call. Not only the last call, but many others before too.

"But you wouldn't have realized". Her voice again.

"Certain people are like that. They need to be told everything explicitly, so that they will realize things at a later time ".

I took another book from table.

"If you remember, we used to talk for about an hour and the calls were made daily. But now you are in your own world of dreams and imaginations..." She was speaking continually.

When only the sound of the fan remained in the room, I stopped flipping the pages of the books.

I went near her and took her spectacles off her eyes and kissed the closed eyes. I felt my lips wet. With out looking at her, I kept the thirteen paged letter to her on the table and walked back home.

While walking back like an actor in a drama with no audience, the pungent smell of cut grass filled my nostrils.

To Hear A Tulsi

We had a Tulsi in a small altar - which I called 'Tulasithara' - in front of our home. Nobody knew who placed her there because she was there in front, when we took the house for rent. When we bought the house to make it our home, she too continued her leaving there along with so many other walls and doors and windows.

"You have a nice Tulsi in front of the door". "It adds to the beauty of the house".

Comments were poured on her by the neighbors and visitors. With those comments the hatred towards that plant in the genius minds inside the walls of the building increased day by day. The reason was

"We do not believe in Tulsi or any of the rituals around it, that you follow".

That sentence bulged in front the word 'rituals' to hide the adjective 'stupid'.

"We just keep the plant there, as it was there when we bought the house". The words flew inside out the house from many mouths.

The milkman and such other visitors who waited outside the house caressed her by plucking her leaves, blossoms, chewing them and finally spitting everything back to her body. She was not allowed to flower by these conscious and unconscious hands.


One day when I went back home, I saw a cactus replacing the Tulsi. The 'Old', 'Stout' and 'Never Flowering' Tulsi was thrown outside with the rituals around her.

Nobody dared to caress the new cactus as she had intelligent thorns instead of blossoms. But I could see that people wanted to caress her too. The black, grey and henna colored hair strands and the cloth threads locked in her thorns said that. But she was completely yellowish and was plump. When asked I was answered

"We daily water her twice but still yellow always. Its because of the curse of that old Tulsi".

Now they believe in Tulsi. I smiled.