Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Memories are not always made of roses....

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Prologue: My Parents are no more.

I could neither see the two small girls who were waiting with a bunch of neatly tied wild roses at the exit of the railway station, nor did I see a group of elders waiting along with the girls to receive me…............ instead I was looking at the changes that came in that old railway station since I last visited it, almost 7 years ago to attend Henry's funeral.

I was looking at the neatly painted wood and concrete fence, painted fresh with a cute white and pink on alternate pillars.
The old building that was the parcel container was replaced with a new concrete structure. The old building was donated by my mom and what was left of the building was a board with her name in faded chrome paint still shining in Congo red colour.

My eyes went beyond far end of the railway station, scanning for something so vivid. I saw what I was looking for, the huge old May flower tree still blooming with red and yellow flowers.

I remembered that the tree was older than me and my mom.
I used to play the soldier and robber with those buds of Mayflower with her while waiting for the train to arrive.
She would win easily, giving me a chance to watch her beautiful laughter of victory. She was the one who taught me how to play that game on one of our very few journeys together.

Though our tickets were always booked first class, she would refuse the guard’s request to use the VIP waiting room…instead she would lead me to the crude wooden bench beneath the tree with yellow and red flowers covering the earth all around us.

She was well known around this country, where she was born and brought up.
At those times while she was in her territory, she was a kid mostly, and acted like a wild butterfly.
A few minutes of the news of her arrival would bring a dozen young girls at her door.
She would play with young girls keeping an eye on me and winking wickedly at me.

With my Dad she would always politely refuse travelling by car when he tries to reson with her to use his car and driver, simply because she wanted to enjoy the country. What she would say to my dad was that the roads being bad and the train being safer.
I knew what was her likes and dislikes.
She was not woman at those times. In her country she was a girl
fluent in her language, talking to the old grannies as if she is one of them, and also to the cute black skinned children like a bubbling kettle.

Some body touched my hand calling me ‘little master’.

I saw the black guard, who was standing on the platform looking at me at the door blocking the pathway.
I was still "little master" to him.
“There are all waiting for you at the gate Sir. We are about to go…just waiting for you to get down” He added and smiled.

He looked at me intently for a second and then added gravely “My respect to the late master… I always waited for him whenever he came by train”.
“I know Mickey" I answered looking elsewhere as I didnt want to look in to his mellow eyes.
"Thanks for remembering him” I answered to Michael the guard.... visualising in my mind, his surprise and wonderment in his face when he realised that I remember his pet name so well.

That was what my dad called him fondly…Mickey !!

I slowly got down from the first class cabin, as he ordered some one to take my luggage.
I shook my head and showed him my backpack, letting him know that it was my whole luggage.

I also wanted to tell him that I was here on a mission, and what I needed was just a pen, to sign a legal document that would be my last link with the place.
I was aware that I won't see this place again, but I just kept my mouth zipped.

I walked towards the exit gate nearby, waving to Mickey as he was whistling the train to go.
Just before the exit gate I had the urge to turn around, and I did, towards the platform and at the moving train, watching each and every compartment…each one flashing in my mind, gaining speed like a movie, spontaneously giving me glimpses of her and her laughing eyes.

I stood still with my tearful eyes a long minute, looking at the tail end of the train fading away like a big python, while I waited for the moisture in my eyes to subside.

I regained my posture and turned around facing the group and smiled. "Here I am" I said.

I accepted the bunch of flowers from two little black late uncle's grandchildren. I looked beyond the group and saw a pair of dark and deep eyes behind the faces looking intently at me.


When it comes to music, I don’t have a language barrier.
I can enjoy music when I am in a happy mood or when it dips to the lowest too… provided that the music suits my mood.
Here is one of my favourite Arabic songs, a sentimental ballad by the famous Lebananee artist Hussein El Jasmi singing “Wallah ma yeshwa”


kat said...

Very moving

Nea said...

I wish there was more, I don't feel that I have read the whole story, I am left with so many questions, but then I have an inquisitive mind. Always questions......

I loved this, you write so well, captivating.....

Janice Thomson said...

Oh Jac, how touching and beautifully written this is. Thank you for sharing these very personal memories.

Srijith Unni said...

Deep Jac, really really deep.! Like you said memories are not always roses. Pain and sadness too are memories.

Take Care and God Bless!

Wishing well.

DeLi said...

and such a poignant, poigant picture

Sapna Anu B.George said...

wow.............with such intense words with droplets of tears, I take your leave, great narration Jac.

Priya said...

Thaz a very touchy post Jac.

meetu said...

u have mastered how words can do justice the human emotions . brilliant jac.

Sam!! said...

Such a well written, touchy post Jac.. thanks!

God bless you!

J. Andrew Lockhart said...

I really agree with Janice..

Keshi said...

Memories can be a bed of roses or a bed of thorns or a mix of both. Touching post Jac!

**When it comes to music, I don’t have a language barrier.

I can see that :) Ur so like me then. Great to be lieke that. HUGZ!


Othersideblue said...

sad mood prevailing?

VIDYA said...

it was very touching, and even after reading the post twice over, i feel you havent mentioned something imp or tht its incomplete, dono y.
you write amazingly well jac.

ani said...

that was a reallyy touching ..
sometimes all we left with is memories..

some happy some sad.. but then you always feel transformed to that place.. it feels more as if questioning oneself.. had i done something differently would things have been different now..

Always that if..
Am sure to come back for more..
Thanks for dropping by on my blog.. Ani

Walker said...

Like i said in answer to your comment Jac.
Your write the best when you write like you.
Very moving post buddy

Dotm said...

Such a loving tribute to your Mom and Dad. Memories are so precious, both those which bring us tears and those that bring us smiles. They all play an important part in our life. Am I wrong to feel that you were still young when you lost your parents? They were well respected by others and that is a great memory to hold close. Thanks for sharing this part of your life.

Dotm said...

Jac, may I ask what the song title means in my language? Nice music.

Anonymous said...


Seemu said...

Touching Jac... loved this blog... I really don't have words to say, it's too good...

I have mailed you.


AaYuShI said...

extremely touching..
a must read.:)

Gazza said...

Nearly brought a tear to my eye that Jac.

Jac said...

Thank you kat

Jac said...

I can guess what your questions are !
Thank you nea

Jac said...

Thank you too for the kind comment.

Jac said...


Jac said...

It was, deli.

Jac said...


Jac said...

Thank you

Jac said...

Thanks for the appreciation.

Jac said...

God bless you too, sam

Jac said...

Thanks :)

Jac said...

Hugs to you too

Jac said...

Sort of….. you know !!

Jac said...


Jac said...

Welcome to my window.

Do come when ever you please !!

Jac said...

Thank you so much buddy.

So we have something in common to smile about.

Jac said...

So kind is your words dot, I don’t know what to say.
Thank you so much dot.
The song title is “wallah ma yashwa” means “with you everything is gone” or “you took everything when you went away” meaning happiness.

Its is very famous ballad in Arab countries

Jac said...


Where are you ?

Jac said...

Thank you seemu, that’s enough words!!

Jac said...

Welcome to the window.

Thank you and hope to see you again.

Jac said...


I know, gazza !

Crimson Shimmer said...

i havnt the words.
but this post was really moving.
every stopping by at a may flower tree :)
and love your choice of song: beautiful voice... need to expand my variety beyond amr diab...

btw: didnt quite understand your comment, wot is the reader? and you meant a post/comment on my blog? i didnt receive any either :)

mind if i summon a link to your blog?

Keshi said...

HUGZ Jac hows u? :)


magiceye said...

very touching jac...poignant...
the words seemed to flow so effortlessly...beautiful...
loved the music in the background too... added to the ambience..

*~*{Sameera}*~* said...

Very touching memoirs!

Jac said...

First of all I have to thank you for that ardent comment. I am deligted.

In most of the blogs the feed is activated so that people can read and know if selected blooggers have a post with out going precisely in. The saved feed will do it for you and read part of it, if the content is large.

Two days ago, I found in my saved feed against your name, a post and I read a new poem there.
As I don't like to comment through feeds(though the option is available) I was there in your blog but didn't see that post there. Probably it was saved while you tried to post it as trial somewhere else. I noted the date as June 18th....hence my comment.

There must be a reason. nyways thanks.

Jac said...

Hugz back to you. Posted now.

Jac said...

Thanks for that adorable comment

Jac said...


Mahi said...

these memories r really precious! very touching post!

Lubna said...

Hello Jac,
How are you. You sure know how to pour your entire emotions into words.
Best wishes

Jac said...

Thank you.

Jac said...

That is how I normally write.