For my grandfather

I spend a lot of my time in front of the mirror. At least, I used to, when I had all that time. Now I use all that time to sleep and read. A recent peep into the mirror, told me to take a closer look. I peered hard, looking through the corner of my right eye and stealthily bring my right hand to my right ear. It is true. I saw it and then I touched it. It was real. I had a real, hair growing out of my pinna and it is still there, untouched, unplucked, all set to wiggle with my ear and ready to welcome the gentlest of breezes onto it.

All excited about the new discovery, I lead mom by her hand, towards the mirror and demonstrate the tiny, wiry protrusion. She’s amused; I can see that in her eye. She hits me on my back, playfully chiding me for this childish exultation. She returns to her magazine, but is not very attentive. Her eyes don’t read, they just scan. She’s thinking and we will soon be hearing a nugget from her past.

She tells me that the hair on my ear is hereditary. It seems that her father, my maternal grandfather, also has hairs on his ears. Now that she mentions it, I remember the sinewy mesh of black hair sticking out from grandpa’s ears.

Mom goes on to tell me that I am very much like my grandfather. It is not just the dark colour that I get from him. It seems I also share his unpredictability in moods, confused nature, an amount of stubbornness and tremendous will power. I wonder if he is a scorpion too.

My grandfather retired as a schoolteacher in a government school several years ago. With the over-confident backing of humongous inherited ancestral property, he went on to pillage everything that he had following lost cases for more property. My grandmother caught the elevator upwards when I was eight. In his early seventies, my grandfather married a woman he came to like, caring a poop about whatever people would say. He loved books, mom tells me. Maybe it is from him that I also inherited the love for words, for writing, to express what I felt.

Thank you, Mr. Sankaran Nampi, for that is his name. I am going to have a clean-shaven face tomorrow and mom will surely comment on the uncanny resemblance to her dad.

Yea yea, looks like its thanksgiving time!

Hum sab editor hain

They tell kids to read newspapers to mend their skills in English and also to pick up new trends in writing and understanding the language. Interning at the editing desk of a daily newspaper, I see why it is so. Each word is run through, each line; each sentence and thus paragraphs are peered into, with rapt attention to catch disobedient words, dismantled words, manhandled words or just a missing letter. Meticulous, is the word for it. Every acronym is looked into, for its existence and importance. Every complex word is pampered with some amount f attention to check if it is worth sitting there or would be better off in just the dictionary.

It is tough. I swallow the bitter spittle almost everyday. With my pride in the lowest level now, I watch helplessly as someone else easily finds barn-sized holes in the copy that I had just edited. It is called ‘subbing’- the art of sub-editing. I am learning, and I am loving it. People, who used to be curt and cold in the centralised AC, are now getting warmer and often beam a smile in my direction. And when acquaintances stop by and ask me where I am heading, in semi-formal wear, I proudly say, “Office” trying hard to suppress my gawky grin, lest I expose the fluorosis-affected teeth and invoke questions on how much I smoke in a day!

More, later. And I just might get bylines too!

Yay!