It is that time of the year again, Onam, the cultural festival of Kerala . The much awaited time of boat races, pookalam , thriruvathira ,not to forget the sumptuous Onam lunch, with family and friends.

Men and women, at gatherings in the traditional dress of kasavu mundu and saree, impeccably draped, a cynosure for all who behold . But alas, though a Malayalee, in my possession there is no kasavu saree !

Growing up in an orthodox Christian family, away from the verdant God’s own country, Onam was not considered a festival in our household, nor a time for celebration. Leaving home for the faraway cities while still young, maybe the custom and significance of Onam faded from my parents’ mind . There were no pookalams, no dressing in kasavu, nor visits to, or from extended family.

Often Onam came and went, with no notice. Just another day, an ordinary day, with work for adults and school for the children. There was no special Sadhya, but the everyday sambar & thoren, with an additional Avial or payasam, to mark the occasion, arrived on the table, for dinner. And no one really missed the elaborate vegetarian meal or the celebration that we never knew.

So it was, until some years ago, when an invitation for an Onam Sadhya landed on me. I was sans the Kasavu , sans the knowledge of pookalam, Thiruvathira or any of the trappings of the celebration. As it was a pot luck lunch, we each had to bring a dish. Armed with some store bought chips, wearing my regular party best, I arrived at the venue, to quickly feel out of place, not like a Malayalee . The decision was made, to remedy this remiss immediately, by getting a kasavu and being better prepared, for the following year.

From then on each year , out came the kasavu from its packing , to be draped on self, but must add none too gracefully, for the exciting gastronomic treat and fun filled, Onam experience . Then five years ago it was deigned once again, to be not a Christian tradition and thus not to be celebrated . Strange this seesaw of belief, about a cultural festival, a harvest festival in the land of plenty. Now my kasavu has slipped into the dark recess of my wardrobe, never to see the light of day, never to be worn, until the tide changes again.

Sleeping in late on a Sunday morning, not an option for the devout Christian, rushing to church to catch the Sunday Service, in some denominations, starting as early as 6.00 am, and others maybe slightly later. Skipping breakfast and leaving most household chores,undone, dressed in our Sunday best, a beleaguered congregation we are, as we gather to worship the Lord.

The devout reaching well in time, the slackers straggling in late, some walking reluctantly shuffling their feet, as if there under coercion, yet others hanging around outside, chatting till just before the raising of the Eucharist . All in all, everyone gatherrs together to attend the Sunday Service. This Sunday however, was a special service, a prayer to honour the mother of the Holy One . Candles in holders were passed around to each, then lit one by one, going down the pews .

But alas when it came to ours, no sooner than it was lit, the candle was snuffed out . After repeated attempts with no success, we were concerned about this strange occurrence. It was of course no mystery, just the lone ceiling fan over our heads, making mischief. Requesting it be turned off, we were soon able to hold a steady flame, joining the rest in the veneration .

While striving to keep the flame alive , the parable of the ten virgins came to my mind. Five with well trimmed lamps to greet, to welcome the bridegroom, while the rest, careless ,with no oil for their lamps, were rejected and left behind. When all the congregation stood with a burning flame, we in our pew held extinguished candles, because of the overhead fan, which we neglected to turn off .

Faith, a fragile flame, when under the attack of worldly cares, is blown out, like a candle in the wind. Turning away from our troubles and fixing our eyes on the Saviour, knowing His grace is abundant , we can win the battle. Shifting our focus from the challenges, and resting in the shadow of His wings, we keep the flame of hope alive . The ‘ Kingdom of God ‘ , will blossom in our hearts, when we step off the shaky ground of worldly distractions and stand firm on the solid ground of The Word .

Friendship, like a tendril twines, to support, to lift, to raise us in our weakest moments. Friendship like a warm breath of air on a cold winter’s night, like the first rain on a hot summer afternoon, envelopes us. Friendship like a light, shines in our darkest hour, and surrounds like an all prevalent scent, to comfort us . Friendship is the arm that upholds, when we falter, when we stumble.

Friendship binds us together like a filigree, though delicate, yet so strong , a trellis we can lean on , a partnership we can rely on. A lattice so tightly wrought, to lose not its hold on us, even after the lapse of many years . Friendship is the bond that allows freedom to call for help in the dead of the night, sure of someone to share in our sorrow , sure of a shoulder to cry on, of solace in our worst despair.

Friendship like a tapestry, weaves through our lives most intricately, filling the gaps, the empty spaces with colour, completing that which is incomplete, to form a picture most beautiful. Friendship mends the broken strands, makes a design where there is none, brightens with joy that which is joyless , brings to life an otherwise lifeless portrait. Friendship is the ground on which we stand, when we are torn and tormented.

Friendship leads like a beacon burning bright, a guiding light when we are lost, and anchor less. When battered by storms , when sailing aimlessly, friendship like a warning light, steers us through treacherous waters , to bring us safely home. Friendship signals loudly when we err, warns when we walk the path of transgression, firmly chastises our wrong doing, to keep us on the path of righteousness.

But friendship is also fragile, like a candle in the wind, battered by life’s many challenges, and at times to die away . When not nurtured or cared for, it fades with each distance placed, and is quenched by the gusty gale of life. Though the flame may burn no more, a glimmer of light still remains, a precious friendship always there, ready to be rekindled, never judging or holding a grudge, just waiting to be reclaimed .

It was a sunny morning, a lull in the rains, as the young boy, all of nineteen, but not yet a man, went to college to sit for his exam . The mother with a blessing for her darling boy, the father with an encouraging tip ,sent him along, and the boy went off with a smile. He saw his life stretched before him, his dreams he was confident of achieving and his fears he was sure to conquer, when he got his engineering degree.

Reaching the hall, what with last minute revisions, and the anxiety of what questions awaited him , he overlooked the presence of that godforsaken, ever present mobile in his pocket . Not wanting to draw negative attention, he chose not to inform anyone, but removed it from his pocket and left it lying beside him, on aeroplane mode . And he started his exam, impervious to that incriminating phone, lying dead beside him .

Not long after, with four minutes to spare, before the end of the three hour paper, there arrived the invigilators, who spotted the deadly phone. Needless to add, all hell broke loose. The poor boy who started the day, with dreams of the successful completion of his degree and a bright future, was marched off, shamed mercilessly and left with the words of mentors and teachers ringing in his head, that he had signed his death sentence.

Before his mother could reach, to extricate him from the clutches of the censuring faculty, he was left alone in a room, to ponder over his misdemeanour. As the door shut, the boy saw the doors shutting before him, one by one. His dreams of an honourable graduation, of a successful career, and his future, all come crashing down . The sorrow of bringing pain to his parents, seeing their name besmirched, and imagining their eyes filled with disappointment, were all overwhelming.

He saw no escape but to end the misery. Walking away from the room where he was left unsupervised, reaching a secluded block, climbing eight floors, he threw himself off, to end his life. A beloved son, lying there splattered on the asphalt, is what a heart broken mother witnessed on arrival. She would not be returning with her beautiful , cheerful son, but with his shattered, broken, lifeless remains.

Who do we blame for life’s terrible tragedies, is it fate,, or is it the cruel relentless system in this case ? A system that offers no second chances but is quick to judge and pass its sentence ? A system that weighs heavy, on poor students crumbling under its pressure ? Or do we blame that hapless boy, for his momentary negligence, do we fault him for his belief in a system that promised to afford him an useful degree , a successful career, a place in society, to achieve his dreams ?

An oft asked existential question, by the young the old, by the rich the poor, by the famous the infamous, who Am I ? Am I the mistake of the Creator, a blight that cannot be eliminated, am I the accident that cannot be erased? Am I the colossal blunder of two random people who one day came together, the same people, my parents, who then struggled to nurture and keep me alive ?

Am I the outcome of their genetic pool, an amalgamation of all their characteristics, a reflection of their flaws and their strengths? Am I the extension of my parents’ dreams, am I the completion of their unfulfilled ambitions ? Am I the result of my upbringing, am I defined by my family, by those few I call my friends ? Am I the product of my culture, am I to be judged by my faith, nationality, colour , or spoken language ?

Am I defined by my name, a name that was given inadvertently, by the same two who gave birth to me ? A name that is incongruous, a name strange even to me as it rolls hesitantly off my tongue, which still finds it unfamiliar. And yet, with alacrity I respond, each time I am called . Am I to be defined by my appearance, the clothes I wear, the etiquette I display, which some may even consider uncouth ?

Am I defined by my education, by the years spent in school and college, by the degrees I hold, by the profession I undertake ? Is it the success of my career, my finances, or the lack of it, that defines me ? Am I to be judged by the words I speak, the ideology I advocate, the philosophy I preach, all in a voice most insignificant, a voice barely heard in the resounding din?

Am I defined by the poor choices made, by the resultant failures and consequences , am I to be plagued by fears, by insecurities of being rejected and worthless ? Am I to be judged by the weight of my errors, the follies of my youth, am I to be tormented by constant doubt and despair, about who I am and my value ?

Who am I , is the question that reigns, what is my purpose here on earth ? Frustrated and dismayed, we search for answers everywhere. Often chasing worldly pleasures, and happiness, we are soon disillusioned, looking for love in the most unlikely places, we are sorely disappointed, adopting various pastimes, we try to fill the vacuum within, quite unsuccessfully.

Then with the passing years, comes to those who seek the Lord, a spiritual maturity, a wisdom hitherto unknown, the clarity that I am created wonderfully, and not the sum total of all above! There is in me something more, something my own, a Spark that my Maker has put in me, something to identify I belong to Him. And there is no doubt, He has a plan for me, a purpose for me, for the here and the hereafter, and ‘ worthlessness’ plays no part in it .

Fear, an emotion that takes over our every sense, that blinds us, cripples us and leads us to destruction. Fear, is man’s worst nightmare, fear of the unknown, fear of unrequited love, fear of rejection, fear of loneliness, fear of an uncertain future, fear of ill health and above all, fear of death .

Fear, an emotion, an aberration, not easy to conquer, not easy to drive away, nor to ignore. Creeping in when least expected, tying us in knots, reducing us to nothing,bringing us down to our knees. It is often fear that causes defeat, but not always detrimental, fear can also lead us cautiously through life , keeping us safe from harm and danger .

So what is it that creeps up on us, in the dead of night, when the magic of the moonlight turns eerie, when the comforting noises of the dark turn sinister, what is it that comes to possess our spirit? Slight misgivings that grow like monsters, to spread icy fingers around our heart, squeezing out the very life . What is it that visits in the dead of the night, this wraith like faceless being with no calling card,? Where does this nameless dread rise from, to descend like a heavy cloud, to enfold like a shroud?

Is it a physical entity, is it a creation of a fragmented mind, a question that we are often left with, once the night has passed. What can create this indelible mark, what is this unexplained fear ? Does it stem from an unforgiving past, from relentless regrets, are we dancing with the dead, or is it a premonition of an impending disaster, an event yet to unfold? And as we surmise and try to comprehend, the shadow of the presence still lies heavy on us .

Strange this creature that roams the dark, sometimes to take shape, at others a passing figment, but just as perilous its presence, each time. Stop, I say to the being, stay behind, you who have no name. I cast away your ghastly shroud, and will not let it weigh me down . Happy thoughts I swathe me with, the love of dear ones I clad me with, my faith in the Lord I shield me with, and then I know you can do me no harm .

It’s been a few years, since our last vacation, since Covid and the resultant restrictions, since the fear of travel took over . After much deliberation, after much consideration, we decided on a short tour, of none other than God’s own country.

Being the month of May, we were filled with trepidation , the heat and the humidity we knew would be daunting. As the day of departure drew close we toyed with the idea of cancelling, but the dye was cast, and there was no turning back . Enlisting the help of our son, placing our various responsibilities on his young shoulders, leaving him to hold the fort, we set out on our little sojourn .

Starting on time , we got into a cab but the driver took a convoluted route, through thick traffic, which caused some small anxiety about reaching in time. But far worse was that the cabbie had the dirty habit, of frequently spitting in a fountain out of the window, as he was chewing beetle nut . Nevertheless, we were too excited to really care and nothing could take away from our exhilaration.

Reaching the airport we realised, our flight was from the new terminal 2, which only added to the adventure. Seeing the beautifully decorated terminus, was indeed a great experience. The plane was on time and the journey, un eventful . On arrival we took a taxi to our hotel , and the temperature I admit, was not far worse than in Bangalore . Looking out of the window, the transformation of the town from my youth, to a metropolis now, was amazing .

A couple of days in Cochin, in the hotel we frequented during our far less than frequent visits in the past. A hotel that stood beside the backwaters, a canal that once flowed swiftly, but now more sluggish, as if burdened by age. The food, as always delicious to the tongue, but now sitting heavy in our belly. After a round of visits, to renew our otherwise dying relationships, and a dinner with friends at a famous restaurant in Fort Kochi, we were ready for our next destination.

Spice Village, ensconced in the lush green region of Thekkady, on the periphery of the Periyar forest reserve, a resort built on the principles of clean, green, healthy, was truly a haven. Spread across twelve acres, are the quaint little elephant grass thatched cottages. Powered by solar energy, serviced by rain water harvesting, food from kitchen gardens, and fruit bearing trees, a self sufficient, green property.

Waking in the morning to the prattle of birds,the mynah and the babblers interspersed by the lewd whistles from the blue thrushes. The monkeys , the black Nilgiri langurs with their splendid golden head, were scrambling up the trees, to feast on young fruits, while the squirrels, not far behind, scurried around frantically, and the domesticated spotted Guinea fowls, waddled about, squawking proprietarily.

The day began with a hearty breakfast, a choice of continental, and local cuisine, fresh fruits and juices, coffee and tea, a time to interact with other guests . A boat ride was arranged for those interested and off we went to sight wild life . The Periyar lake, surrounded by the undulating Western Ghats, is a truly spectacular sight. The water so clear, calm and unruffled, filling us with a long forgotten serenity.

Sightings we had a few, just the random startled , Sambar deer, or a herd of wild buffaloes and bison . The birds we saw many, the heron, the river tern and the cormorant, displaying their many talents, spreading their wings and flying about, as a special treat . The water came rushing in ripples, splashing against the moving boat, then receding away in laughter, as if playing a game of ‘catch me if you can ‘ .

Tea time was a memorable occasion with a tea cart out in the open, snacks in jars and a woman from the local tribe, pouring tea with a dexterity that belied gravity. As we relished the food and ambience, music from a time gone by , from a cherished past, played in the background. The rest of the late afternoon was spent, either walking in the spice gardens enjoying the botanical splendour or playing outdoor sports.

Evenings started with entertainment, dances by artists, Bharatanatyam, kuchipudi , and other classicals, a different one, each day . Then came the cooking demonstrations, a new dish everyday, attended by the guests, both men and women, who hoped to improve their culinary skills. After dinner, an elaborate buffet ,most retired to the pool room, or the library, to relax awhile before we returned to our rooms.

A great vacation, a brief moment in time, a moment that was rejuvenating. It was no holiday in the mountains, no cruise in the Mediterranean, not an African safari, not a visit to famous monuments, but just a simple getaway, that was most experiential, a vacation that left us feeling energised and special. It is not just the destination that makes a perfect vacation, but the people we meet, and our willingness to enjoy, even the most banal .

We were fortunate, to meet the very best, from the pleasant cleaning crew, eager to share their stories, the obliging Kitchen staff, who went the extra mile to fulfill our every request, and the Naturalists, who patiently explained the flora and fauna, making even the small excursions, meaningful and interesting. And when it was time to leave, it was with a saddened heart, that we waved to each, as they gathered to bid us goodbye.

The greatest lesson learnt however, was from a little cormorant. The smallest of its flock, that faltered and stumbled, and was last to take off., but soon gathering speed, flying straight and swift to finish first. A lesson for us, who feel left behind, that no matter where or when we start we will always finish the race as ordained . And inspite of our adversities, we can truly believe, that all things work together for our good, always .

A lazy afternoon, the start of the Mother’s Day weekend, with plans of celebrations the next day, rested the woman after a leisurely lunch . But not long after, she felt uneasy, twinges of pain in her chest cavity, and her breathing slightly laboured. She looked for help to her husband, in a chair close by reading his book.

Looking at his dear wife in travail, he is reduced to but an incompetent helplessness. However with the presence of mind to call a dear friend, he waits anxiously. There was not a moment of delay, like God’s angel she descends, to take control, to drive them to the nearest healthcare centre .

Rushing into the Emergency Room, getting the required medical attention for her afflicted friend, and when convinced she was in capable hands of the skilled medical staff, she retired to the waiting room to reassure the distraught husband and to inform all concerned, though not enthusiastic about being the harbinger of unfavourable news .

Discovering a hundred percent block in the artery, the doctors did an emergency angioplasty, curing the lady of an otherwise fatal condition, and soon well enough, she returned home thanking the Lord, for a new lease of life. Her adoring children, resident in foreign countries, set aside their families,dropped their busy schedule, to be by her side, on Mother’s Day, a special gift from the Lord above.

Disconcerting and sobering was the news of this unfortunate incident, for all the rest of us, her friends. Rudely reminded of mortality, the fragility of life was brought to the fore. Whether health conscious or disciplined in our lifestyle, uncertainty always is lurking at our side. One thing though was made clear to us, death is stalking each one of us, snapping at our heels, nipping at our feet, but God is in control.

No matter what the devil intends, it is God who has the final say, and death, conquered by Jesus Christ has lost his power over us . It is the Lord who holds our times in His hands and He alone who keeps us safe on earth, until His purpose is fulfilled, in each of our lives .

It is with confusion we read, that Jesus cursed the fig tree which had no fruits, though it was not the season. Often dwelling on this passage, wondering what was the fault of the tree, to incur such wrath, from the Lord of compassion, and on finding no understanding or feasible interpretation, letting it go.

After the episode with the tree, Jesus enters the temple, and we read about another display of unprecedented rage, from the Lord of mercy, which we find perplexing. Once again, with no plausible explanation, other than possible ire at the defilement of His Father’s home, we quell our doubts uncertainly .

We continue however to puzzle, over these unexplained incidents. Then it is I came by a message today , that cast some light on the subject. Fig trees first bear edible nodules in the spring, indicative of fruits that come in the summer. The tree in question had only exuberant leaves and no nodules, which meant there would be no figs later .

The fig tree is likened to the Israelites , namely the Pharisees, who like the tree have grown in stature, covered with leaves but yielding no fruits . The Pharisees ,strutted around with pride, wearing their knowledge of the scriptures as their label of salvation, their ticket to resurrection and eternity, which they said was inaccessible to the uneducated.

They preened about their superiority and cared not for those less privileged, nor for the gentiles, who had no access to the Word of God . The outer courtyard of the temple, was as near as the gentiles could get to the Holy of Holies, to the dwelling place of God . This was further removed from them, by the merchants and the money changers, who filled it up with animals for sacrifice and other merchandise.

This caused Jesus’s rage, an anger aroused by the exclusion of the very people, the poor, the sinners and the gentiles, the very people He had come to save and gather unto Himself, resulting in a reaction so uncharacteristic. On the way from the temple, the disciples noticed the fig tree had dried up, thus was the prophecy of Jeremiah 8:13 fulfilled – There will be no figs on the tree and their leaves will wither. What I have given them will be taken from them.”

Let us then, unlike the Pharisees, not whitewash our exterior, holding ourselves high, by the learning of scripture, and not practising it, but share our knowledge of the good news, with all and each other, with those less deserving, so that we do not come under the curse of the fig tree .

A limerick, or a haiku, a sonnet, or freestyle, the rhyming raps, or riddles, ballads that tell tales of battles, of heroes from bygone days, many are these word tricks called poetry. Each with its own style, a phrase, some full of sense, some just nonsensical, some profound, and philosophical, and then there are some, just hysterical.

A story, descriptive and expressive, the style attractive, the words picturesque and illustrative. At times humorous, filled with comedy, others serious and full of tragedy, but always to hold the attention of the reader, avidly . Then there are some dull and boring, with just facts and figures, interesting to a few, but cast aside by the majority .

Not to dismiss the oral recitation, a narrative with words that enthral, words that emote, bringing to life a story. Charismatic orators with powerful words, can sway crowds, persuade them to follow their beliefs, sometimes even the wrong. Words that can be edifying, words that can be spellbinding, words of wisdom, words that are sincere. But words can also be deceptive, be destructive, words that can cause destruction.

Thus brings to mind, a time long ago, a time in a warm old kitchen, evenings together preparing dinner, a mother and her daughter . As the mother stirred the pot, rolled the bread, the daughter’s role, was to sit perched on high, regaling the mother with stories from the books she had read . A most delightful experience for both the narrator and her audience of one .

Shy and retiring, with no companions, the books from the library were the girl’s best friends. Each new novel, was her story, the characters she played, effortlessly. The words tripping off her tongue, softly, hesitantly at first, but soon animatedly. Her mother, her audience of one, revelled in the narrative, a welcome respite, to the otherwise monotonous tedium of her chores .

Starting with fairy tales,moving from mysteries to romance, as time went by . Then came her favourite ‘ Gone with the Wind ‘ and each evening, a chapter, like an episode was enacted, at a time when there were no televisions. She was Scarlett, she was Ashley, she was Rhett Butler and their little baby. She was the negro slave, the cowardly soldier, and the civil war she recounted in great detail .

The narrator and her audience of one, awaited their evenings together, eagerly . The daughter ready to entertain with her words and the mother ready to be transported to exciting new places, each day. Slowly, as the years went by, the mother watched her little girl evolve, growing less reticent , her words no longer hesitant, a confident young woman she was.

Under the appreciative audience of one, the daughter had blossomed, gained stature. No longer bent under the weight of her shy demeanour, she spoke with an assurance that was riveting. The mother regarded her daughter with pride, and the daughter saw in that loving face, no judgment, no criticism, but only patience and abounding encouragement.

The hours spent sharing the gift of words, would remain etched in the daughter’s mind. Her consolation, those moments in that warm old kitchen, the evenings together with her mother, a memory she carried through life. To recall those precious times, was her comfort and hope, through the thick and thin of life, and would always remain her sanctuary.