It feels surreal

I didn't think i would ever write a blogpost for or about Y.S.Rajasekhara Reddy. But then this post is happening. Even as i write this in a dreamlike state sitting in the office, it feels utterly surreal that he is no more.
Did i like him?Was i proud to have him as the Chief Minister of my State? I wasn't. Though, i appreciated the schemes that were introduced for him, like the Arogyasri Scheme for instance or other pro-agricultural,pro-poor policies, there were quite a few things about him that bothered me and many like me. Corruption and scams that occured during his time were regressive. So even as the State claimed to move ahead, it was also being pulled back. Lack of accountability among government officials had increased manifold. But then there are many supporters who ask me "Which politician isn't corrupt?" Another issue to be dealt and written about on another occassion-about how easily we seem to accept corrupt politicians.
However, today when i watch his coffin being lowered down, i feel odd. And am concerned. Concerned about the State as a whole. Concerned as to who will come and fill his shoes. For five years and three months, he was at the helm of affairs. Never once faltering, never once feeling discouraged. He was not to be cowed down by anything-opposition or scams or allegations.
A politician with a sharp tongue, his remarks had created uproars in the Assembly. His smirk and over-confident comments on the Opposition leaders left many seething with anger. He made many enemies, but the enemies were too scared to fight him.

A co-journalist had asked me outside the pilot's home yesterday, if i liked YSR. And i chose not to answer. I disliked him approving endless SEZ (103) and irrational irrigation projects. I disliked him for giving a free hand to the police and for not discouraging corruption; for reducing the accountability in the State.
But, for many he was their messaih. On Thursday, as i walked towards the CM's camp office,right beside my office, i saw the number of people-men, women old and young who came to pay their last respects to their "anna". Women weeping recalling how his numerous schemes helped him, youth recounting how they got employed thanks to his schemes, poor students thanking him for having got an opportunity to study...and so on. As i reached home, my eager watchmen wanted to know where the burial would be and broke down saying that he was a poor man's friend. The watchman recalled how the arogyasri scheme covered the medical expenses when his wife fell ill.
On Friday, as scores of people poured out on the road to pay respects for their leader, i thought i should probably give the devil its due. Here is a Chief Minister who actually implemented what was promised-free power, scholarships, water, health et al.. And the poor man sees this. Not how effective the schemes probably were. Not how much was 'eaten' by greedy politicos. And YSR knew this. He encouraged higher education by setting up IIIT's. It';s a different thing some run in godowns. And a completely different issue that government schools are rotting like the government hospitals and primary health care centres in rural areas. A friend of Muslims and Christians alike, he knew how to keep the minority votes safe. At times, at the cost of majority sentiments.
But then in this country speaking ill about someone who died is blasphemy and the media is careful not to commit this sin.
YSR died a hero. And he will continue to live so. And he will be immortal. Like all those who died in the digital-age will remain.
But yes, it is eerie-The fact that one won't see him in the Assembly or addressing press conferences or teasing the opposition feels weird......

Memories of a woman, a mother and a grandmother

I remember her chubby face, her endearing smile...her beautiful eyes. I remember the way she smelt...like a baby yet like a mother.I remember the softness of her saree as i buried in my face in her bosom...and cuddled to her...I still remember them all like it was yesterday.

She flits in and out of my life.There are days...weeks and perhaps months when i don't think of her..don't remember her and days when all that i can think of is her..reliving each day..trying to forage for the slowly vapourising memories...

And then am scared.What if i forget her?What if i forget her smell?And i try hard to remember her voice..But i can't..ofcourse unless i speak to her sister..And then my mind tries to do a photographic capture of all the memories.But they are rushed.Vague and muddled.

Now, there is no timeframe. I hear the memories argue among themselves,trying to convince me which came first. But my first memory of her is coupled with smell of dicoction coffee and the sounds of crows cawing outside the window. The memory is almost like a black and white film now. With shades of colours in. Like the colour of her saree.A green colour one with patterns of some red flowers.I walk groggily outside and she picks me up,cuddles me and takes me to the bathroom. As i brush my teeth, i hear her singing a song in a low tone. Sleepily, i walk towards her and she places a glass of milk to my lips. And then the memory ends...

Then again there is the day when she gave me a bath in the courtyard, even as my enthusiastic uncle clicked pictures of us. I remember her chiding her son as i begin to cry....She washed my hair with 'kunkudi kayi rasam' and laughs as the bitter juice enters my mouth accidently..she then dries me with a white turkey towel and wraps me in the same even as i run around a little kitten...and then there is the day when she introduced me to 'goli-soda'. I watched her as she drank the chilled drink trying to cool-off the humidity.

She sees the pleading look in my eyes coupled with curiosity and desire for the hidden goli in the green bottle. As i taste the first fizzy drink of my life, i remember the curious sensations i experienced of the fizz in my mouth, the seemingly smell-less smell and the sound of traffic around me...

And then there are many more memories which rush through....or perhaps i was rushing through them as i grew up..as i made friends..as school became my priority...

I remember seeing the women and wife in her the day she saw pictures of her husband's first trip to the US. A photo of an American woman giving a peck on my grandpa's cheek had her blood rushing to her facing and her sulking for an entire day....Of a mother when her elder son-in-law (my dad) yelled at her daughter without her fault... Of a grandmother when i came down with chicken-pox...the neem-baths to calamine lotions...that was perhaps the best sickness i ever came down with! Because she was around.

And every summer as i got off the train and rushed to get into the rickshaw, i would be as eager as ever...waiting to see her, hold her and be pampered..

Waiting to wake up to the same reassuring sounds of people talking, of birds chirping, of motor running, of the fan whirring... Waiting to eat the delicious hot idlis with amazing chutney or be treated to endless summer fruits like date palm fruits, mangoes etc. I would wait, for those evening trips to the market with her, picking up clothes, getting restless, being treated to endless eatables..to coming back home exhausted....to the smell of her cooking...

She was there when i stepped into 'womanhood'.She was there trying hard to put concepts in most simple terms for me, answering incessant questions even as she tried hard to live by traditions laid down by her fore-fathers. Traditions she never firmly believed in but chose to follow. She was there chiding my father as he spoilt me and bringing me back to reality..She was always there..

And then suddenly, just like that she was gone. I still remember that phone call. The phone call that changed it all.That brought me really close to death..I remember dad recieiving the call in the dead of the night and mom instinctively asking if her mom was ok.

I remember mom crying and coming into the room and waking us up....and telling us that 'She died'. A phrase i didn't want to hear or believe. And i chose not to for a long time.

I remember that trip down to the place i was born..the trip where i saw my super-human grand-dad turn into a mere mortal before my eyes...the trip where he sobbed on my lap, the trip where my little cousins had come face-to-face with death even before they realised the meaning of life...i remember it all.

And i remember trying to collect and put all the memories together of my darling grandmother. Trying hard not to believe that she would no longer be there for me.....

And today, almost 13 years after her death, i feel her loss even more plainly. I feel her abscence even acutely as much as i miss my grandfather. I have always wanted to be the 'good girl' in their eyes and when i do something wrong, it is them and not God that i look upto for forgiveness...it is from them that i seek courage.....

Words they say are forever and i just put together perhaps a handful of my memories with grandma with the hope that it stays forever.....