RW-1

RW -1. [Random Writings. Book 7.Part 37. Pages 01to06.]

6.3.07. After many days, My Lord I return to writing. It is my B’Day, today. Nothing much to celebrate. Just that I turn 55, the age of retirement by Kerala Standards. But being in a CBSE school, I got 3 more years of routine signing in the morning and spending the rest of the day in the school for a monthly replenishment of my meagre account.

The routine was broken today when I went to visit a ninth standard boy, Pranav at his home.He felt a pain in his stomach a couple of months ago. Doctors opened his abdomen to find out the stage of malignancy and recommended chemo. No, said his parents and tried Ayurveda without any long improvement. The boy, mostly on liquid diet lost lots of his 81 Kg, turned thin and old, and lost interest in the TV, music and other pastimes. So they switched to Homeo, administering drugs every hour. Tomorrow he goes.

10.3.07 And he went to Palakkad.
Palakkad is so different. So different that I wash my pen, and fill it anew with Your flowing Grace that I can at least pray for Pranav, distantly my boy, like Manik, Prakash and Kamma who did this sort of writing for me. I was the chronicler and R. N [Rajashekhar Narayanarao] Kamma was the editor. We just exchanged the jobs. Then I migrated to the hills and then the plains, first to the east cost and then to the west. Here my brief was to start a school under the greats like EAG [ E. A. George] Moses and Dr. J. D. Johnson. And then the management changed and I like a distant imitation of Harry, not Potter but Miller, chose to stay put in the suburb of Kochi, painting, writing, gazing stars and guarding a few guppies in a garden pond with walls of a famous fort above which encircled a coloured kingfisher who scooped in a flash and carried the young ones.

I laid a net over the pond, [ not to trap and catch, of course] with a Chinese pot protruding over its centre. Or is it an amphora or even may be Keats that urn, by the way, did he drown in it?

Well, lets be back. At last after Pradeep’s projects and Jwala’s memorials, I was feeling a little free. Last night by 12, I had got the last things printed in Jerry’s colour Lab where young Suraaj charged me less than half the normal rates that too smiling so. My heart melt in gratitude. Now, by 12 noon the girl has finished arguing 23 minutes in the moot court with a set of black blazers in a caricature of Hogwarts.

Having experienced in the hills where blazers and jackets and sweaters were part of the uniform, I didn’t feel it strange but sometimes thought like a muggle master, who just spent some time among the pure bloods which happily my daughter never felt. So simply prepared all those 84 pages and did it OK. Results are awaited. More awaited are the results of my son, Pradeep who carried a 5-in-one project folio for an interview in SIMC, where the Prof. Director said the lad seemed serious about things, a trait he liked. He was also kind enough to allow the boy go out and come in twice, filling him with hopes – hopes of getting one out of the twenty seats and indeed, more so the simple and pure hope, a four letter word, purified like Miller’s four lettered man, which propelled life. Yes, life as an aggregate of all that dared to live.
For the rest, see RW 2