Cure for the pain

As I write this, I'm living out the rough and tumble of simple living. My grandmother's home in Kerala has the basic conveniences of modern existence, yet seems to prove the classic adage right- the more things change, the more they remain the same.

Daily living's uncluttered here. Schedules rarely heave. All 'early-to-bed, early-to-rise'rs. Chores begin at dawn, and follow each other in routine humdrum.

Women have an equal share of voice in household matters. Every home no matter how poor, believes in giving their children decent education, sincere in the conviction that a good job holds the key to upward mobility. All hard workers, they believe in earning the bread they bring home to their families. Which is also why, grinding poverty is almost non-existent.

Outwardly, not much has changed. I see the same tea shop, I'd seen as a goo goo eyed girl, with its fresh 'chaya/kaapi ' aroma wafting through the antediluvian atmosphere, mingling with the unhurried buzz of activity around.


This wasn't meant to be a character sketch of a malayalee, but the culmination of an insight gathered over the past week of rumination.

Because, beneath the deceptive calm, there's many an instance of brewing and settled storms. A private grieving behind the 94-year old collection of my grandmother's wrinkles. Unspeakable in its depth, but solid in its reality. A wrenching agony transcending the cherubic smile of a bright-eyed kid, left in the wake of it's mother's passing.

Yet, life goes on. Simply, because there are no answers. Doesn't matter how loud and how often you scream out your questions.

Life, then, is largely an unbroken stretch of sorrow, occasionally interspersed with happiness and ever so sporadically intermingled with bitter-sweet moments, where you think you've lived a lifetime.

I have no answers. My pain is also my remedy.