Life in New England is a mirage of seasons. This time around it is fall at its peak. Many a leaves have turned a brightly yellow and others a fiery red. My route to work through the US-3 is a splash of yellow, red, orange and green, distracting the drivers’ eye. The colors bring a whiff of chilliness with them that sets in – as the early morning frost on the car, over the warmth of a hoodie on my skin, in the errant afternoon breeze, on a sunny day brazen with dropped temperature.

The weekend past, we drove northwards to White Mountains that are supposedly painted the best during this time of the year. It was a mission to hike in the comforting cold air and gather as many wallpaper pictures as could be. We began our trail at the polar caves . The polar being a misnomer, this place houses a gamut of rock formations, daring one to walk, crawl and adventure through the enclosed passages. Some of the narrowest of paths were aptly named as ‘fat man’s misery’ or ‘lemon squeeze’. With a few bumps from low rocks and out of breath walking steeply curbs, we had spent a good part of the morning hours enjoying the caves encompassed in a fall colored forest.

The next stop was the flume gorge , hosting a 2 mile trail through a ravine as the name suggests. This natural chasm is traversed through the gravel path and wooden bridges lining the long stretch of gurgling waters. Not only is the path steeply with many ups and downs, it also glimpses over the surrounding hills laden with canopies of beautiful red, yellow,orange and crimson. It was indeed a difficult hike, owing to our grumbling stomachs midday. But the picturestique falls and naturally dyed ambience were a treat to remember.

An imperative refueling over Chinese food and later, we had less than two hours before sunset to make it to our next destination. The loon mountains otherwise a popular ski spot during winters, offers skyrides to get that much sought after aerial view of the mountain ranges. As the ten minute ride climbed atop, we were on the last leg of photo taking, leaning towards saturation. In the wee hours of dusk, the cold was prickly and the elevation only made it worse. Doused with over zealous spirit from the rest of the day and dew settling in, we had called it a day to retire.

As I drove back, against the setting sunlight and wonderful chill, I was glad for catching a peek of fall at its best and not making it a reminder of harsh winter days to come, but of foliage unmatched!

Moments by the Sea

It is change of seasons in Boston; all that rain and spring giving way to a green summer. The soaring temperatures, warnings of a heat wave and tropical country like humidity have been a welcome respite and a reminder of the Indian summer that I so miss! And like all Bostonians, we had decided to not let such good weather go past us and have plans to gather enough sunshine to last the winter!

The weekend past we had made a trip to the Ogunquit beach in Maine. Even with the warm sands and crispy winds, the waters were still icy cold and the waves splashed in foamy contentment. The coastal lagoon of Perkins cove was an ever scenic walk with the ocean crashing against the rocks.

I had in childlike spirit, trekked the subtly steep mossy rocks leading to the deep splattering sea. The rock divide, caused waters to gush through them creating a rivulet of waves and gurgling noises. In the silence of the noisy waves, the tinge of a saline humid fog and the sea salt in every breath, we had parked ourselves on the rocks to capture the view that lay ahead of us. And I believe I could arrest that picture perfect sunny misty sea, as beautiful as it was, only because we had forgotten to carry the camera and if anything could hold that moment it was just the memory.

Beaches have always been an unwavering infatuation and considering that one can’t travel to the sea here like I would all year round to Besi beach in Chennai, beaches to me, have become that sought after feel of freedom. There is always an inexplicable romance about watching the unending horizons and feeling the brackish whiff the breeze brings to your face. And having grown up waddling in the shankumukam beach of Trivandrum, I would still associate the beach with a west coast Arabian Sea and the crimson sunset;

My best moments with appa, preserved in remembrance, were begging to stay for the last dab from another wave, until the orange sun had hidden itself and painted the sky pink; I would then return, holding the conical paper pack of sand-fried peanuts, sticky salty legs and sand grabbing to them, much to the annoyance of amma’s sense of hygiene.

But then, as I watched the dusk set in on the Ogunquit beach, a grayish blue sky with streaks of red here and there, the east coast had failed to recreate the magic of a sunset, of that scintillating red fire like waters and burning skies. Yet, to me, the sea is that pinnacle of free will; of leaving your ties behind on the land, of knowing that there is life beyond the little space you have created for yourself in the world, of letting go your inhibitions and running free.

Ah! The beautiful sea!

A Good Hair Day

The sultry dark hair saloon at the corner of east fort, Trivandrum, resonated of a stubborn fan and rhythmic clanks of deftly moving scissors. I, the four year old was seated on the high rotating chair facing the cloudy mirrors. In all curiosity, I peered through my oversized blue plastic robe to catch a glimpse of appa’s reflection. No sooner had the barber chettan delivered a shave for the portly uncle; he had exchanged a few words with appa. He had assumed the scissors and comb, one in each hand and given me his toothy smile through the mirror. In all my hesitation of the surroundings I had reciprocated with incessant wailing. Half and hour and later, I had left the dingy room, smiling through tears, one five star bar heavier and all my black locks intact.

And with that appa’s new venture began, to civilize my hair to the child-like length. He had begun his experiments with the fringe like cut, wherein an umbrella like ringlet hung on the forehead. Like any amateurish effort, my hair got shorter by an inch for each mistake he rendered. Yet, appa had amassed the skill to perfection with years and saved me from the daunting saloon visits, for the better half of my childhood.

Owing to my inhabited tom-boy cuts, I had let the coiffure slip through teenage until I was seventeen. Over the schooling years, my boy-cut had succumbed to many a jibe like “feather-plucked-hen” or “chicken top”. And when I entered the portals of Engineering, I had had my first hair cut in a “salon”, letting my hair stylist retire, marking my age of growing up!

Some wise soul once stated that a good hair style gives you confidence. I am not sure if I concur that, but I am definitely a fad of the new look at the end of a hair cut. And if it is an ad hoc one, the feeling only gets better.

Last Saturday, I had with girl friends, treaded the Boston University streets, fighting the cold lethargy. Ann and I were meeting after ten years and surprisingly for her my hair looked much different from the tom-boy school days. But like stupid school girls, we had jumped to an impromptu whim to get a hair cut each at the Supercuts across the street. Though the rotating chair, plastic robes, huge mirrors felt the same, the ambience was marked by chatter of girls eyeing their hair through their mirror images.

A razor cut, trim, layering and later, we had exited feeling fresh and great. For our feeling and change of look was our own, since N and Size could hardly notice an iota of difference even after giving them a tour of the hairdo from each angle. That night as the girls’ day out was forgotten in yummy desserts, I was left to wonder about women and grooming; and how with a few swirls and curls, we turn prosaic moments to special ones.

Knots tied

Whenever I think of a wedding and the little big intricacies that make it happen, I am reminded of the story “The missing mail” from Malgudi days. The story encompasses the pleasure and pain of bringing the observance together, surviving joy, hard work and crisis. And not so long ago, it was my turn to be in this rigmarole of a marriage, much unlike the era that Narayanan was describing and much like the beguiling ambience he had portrayed.

N and I come from backgrounds that are thankfully one-third alike; ‘thankfully’ since it makes the ritual a lot less complicated. But sometimes it is the other two-thirds bit that can make your wedding a little special and strenuous at the same time. May be that explains how we had squeezed time for me to adorn a madisar but carry a ceremony, as per N’s family tradition, that sans fire.

It had begun on a Saturday with a subtle pooja to the elephant god before dawn. As I prayed and chanted, it was appa’s sleepless night, playing host to the myriad of guests and finding them the respectable hotel accommodation all night long, which gnawed me. And somehow I had not understood until then that there is no such thing as a well planned wedding and if it were without consternations, it wouldn’t be a wedding at all.

The day had broken and spent with the many friends and cousins, welcoming and talking, all blending into that gregarious atmosphere, which was to linger for the next two days. The fulsome feasts had begun and the pedestals were laid for believing that something bigger was in the making. Before I knew, it was time for engagement ceremony in the evening and I was ushered to the bridal room for that first perfect look.

Our engagement was completed by the maternal mamas, who had thoroughly enjoyed the turban tying, garland exchanging and some pot belly hitting hugs that ensued. And with every little function, somehow the families, who had begun the journey with the two-thirds uncommon, were closing in on them. As for N and me, the blinding video lights and the gamut of pictures with constantly plastered smiles were only a warning of what we might be facing hence.

The wedding Sunday was deemed immensely auspicious and it seemed to me the entire town of Madurai was geared to wed. I was circumscribed to a saree only dress code from dawn to dusk, not that I minded, for that bridal touch. As my disoriented step cut hair was deftly braided into a knee touching length, I had mastered the skill to hold a heavy extension to my head. By the time I was worn the muhoortha pattu and jewelry I had spent hours and days designing and selecting, I was running a high temperature and the heavy drumming and gaggle of well wishers outside didn’t help my nervousness.

As I entered the decked pedestal, assuming an unbending namaskaram, the wafting redolence of my huge rose garlands, the olfactory of agarbathi, sandalwood and ornate jasmines gripped me. I was carefully whispered to walk like a bride and I had smiled inertly to my incorrigible clumsiness even in this heavy attire. If not for appa’s reassuring smile and N’s uneasy grin, I am sure I would have effectuated a ‘runaway bride’ scene. But I, in all my panicked calm, espoused the seat next to the pattu veshti festooned groom without further ado.

The ceremony was my first, of course for partaking, but attending as well. As a few words were being spoken by elders, I was but scanning the packed hall, for smiling at familiar faces much unlike a shy bride. Thanks to my humongous garlands and complementing hairdo, I couldn’t turn my neck to peek a word with N or appa. Soon, the gattimelam was sounded and I watched our fathers exchange garlands, followed by our mothers. And with that we had transcended into an ironic arranged marriage mode.

As if rising from my reprieve, we rose to a ritual, I never knew existed in Hindu marriages. With my hand in his, we repeated prose in wholesome Tamil, of words that sounded beautiful, but meaning unknown. Yet, we had in all proclivities agreed to marry the other through that lexis with a thousand odd people watching us.

The next few moments were lifetimes apart and if I were to recall, the only thing that stopped me from sobbing was N’s characteristic “it’s ok” nod, holding the wieldy chain of gold in his hands. No sooner had he given the nod; in the deafening noise and showers of well wishes, the taali had entwined my already crammed neck. And thus in the blink of the eye, we had accomplished the most defining moment of the entire wedding and managed to keep my eye liner intact!

With all anxiety weaned off, little did I know that, the groom and bride were to take a joy ride on the legendary kudirai vandi of Madurai? And to have a cousin hold an umbrella over you, as the horse made its way on the sunbathed streets, was indeed an unusual treat. What followed were a zillion wishes, a million photographs and the aftermath of many a magical moments. And somehow, everything post the crux is never as stirring, but the rituals never cease to end.

For many, it seemed like the new chapter to our lives had begun that day; but for me, it was one of the rarest days of my life when my whole family was together after many many years. Periappa, periamma, mama, mami, athai, athan, cousins and everyone bubbling away and am I glad that they could make it to this little town which they have never visited before.

That wedding night, as I prepared to leave my family to enter a new home, I had done something, I would have found cheesy as a third person. Having spent two days lolling with my entire family, all I wanted to do was stay back. And like a little child, draining my heavy makeup of the evening, I had cried my gut out hugging and refusing to let go of appa and in the bargain making everyone around me teary-eyed.

As I drove away, I was glad for I was married; not because I love N any better now, but for the blissful once in a lifetime episode, which had taught me the love for family again. For – if marriage is sheer optimism; it doesn’t get better than being given away into one.

Wedding Bells

It was through dusty black and white photographs, that amma had introduced her best friends from college to me. She had quoted composed yet with a little tinge of sadness that, she had lost touch over time and she wondered where her friends were married to. And it was then, I had made up my mind to keep in touch with my pals no matter what and even made promises over the infamous ‘spit hand shake’ that I wouldn’t miss their wedding wherever I was.

And when life has it otherwise, it is always combined with inconvincible guilt and pacifying counter affirmations. What comes to my mind is the little sunlit room, accommodating three girls, with their heads bent over the unfathomable ‘probability and queuing theories’. P, M and I were making last minute attempts to clear a paper, which was already termed difficult to fail, considering that scores could fall below 0. We had made the experience less intimidating, by surmising half understood work, discussing gossip and munching finger chips.

We had come a long way since then, to four wonderful years of college life. P and M were always there to listen to me crib about everything under the sun, tolerate my endless blabbering, forgive me for everything silly, organize surprise birthday parties and laugh and share. We had molded good from bad days and made silent promises to not forget, yet forgo.

And here we are two years away from, enthu movie days, beach talks, yapping over phone, lunch hours, ispahani center sojourns, night outs, group studies, (un)surprised birthday parties; all left behind to embrace new boundaries and new lives, woven over best moments and feelings permanent.

And like an answer to all those unsurprised moments of birthday cakes, here we are, as a surprise to many including ourselves, all getting married within the next eight months. In a week’s time is M’s wedding and I am 26 hours away, unable to attend it. Yet, nothing can stop me from being excited and equally happy, for this girl who had stood by me at all times and loves me for me.

On my last visit to India, the three of us had made that small talk, over the easy rounds of food. And, I was subtly intrigued how I had transformed to being ‘DD’ for those few hours I was with them. It was old times, blended in everything new. It made me wonder when we would do this, many years from now; table talking, pulling legs, scape-goating and smiling.

And somehow just like that, it was lucid. The only factor other than ‘change’ which is constant in our lives is friendship; and when you have friends who can make that change, the friendship will always be a constant one.

Post Dedicated to my best friends – Preethi and Manju. Wishing Manju the best wedding ever.

A toast to great memories.