Story of a lost journalist

May 21, 2012

Rosily-ing

Filed under: Personal — Cris @ 18:53

Friendship should be an easy game to play. You shouldn’t have to be careful about what you say or not. You shouldn’t have to be afraid to be your careless indifferent and sometimes totally intolerable self. That’s why seeing Rosily after four long years was so easy. It didn’t matter I had to take a train to Alappuzha at 6am or come back shaking in a throwy KSRTC for four hours. Cause Rosily was going to be Rosily even if I had missed her wedding, even if I hadn’t called her for months, even if I forgot the name of her husband!

She was there at that Kuttanad doorstep as if she had spent all her life there. This tiny girl who sat near me as a 16-year-old, her long plaits dangling on the navy blue uniform skirt, her wise eyes probing much deeper into the lessons others frowned at and I yawned at. The girl I knew was going heights even as we teased her Thrissur ‘chirri’ and squeaky protests. We wrote letters between Surat and Trivandrum at an age kids learnt of stamps and inlands in history lessons.

We had decided together never to get married. I’d change my mind sometimes but she stuck to her word until another marriage-hater came to her life. Together the BARCers decided to experience the other side of life. “Like my dad said, you have to know the difficulties in life to appreciate it,” Rosily told me happily, playing with her one-year-old Selin and patting her newborn Jerome. I still couldn’t believe my friend has become a mother of two. She was still so Rosily. So genuine. So happily admitting her realities with a pure heart I seldom see. “Her articles are nice and crisp (about me to her husband). I like it. But I got bored reading her blog.” I had to laugh. Her husband (whose name I still don’t know!) was another Rosily (yes she has become an adjective now, my favorite too). He would gladly take little Selin and ‘Babba’ her for hours. Selin Babba walks unsteadily all across the house, always stopping to exchange gaga-gugus with the strange visitor in the house. Jerome opened his little eyes to smile at the guest and go back to sleep.

Walking out of the open house was as easy as coming in. There were no formalities, no stay-a-little-longers. It was perfect. I walked through the roadless paths outside, inviting attention from the women who washed and cooked outside their houses that stood along dirty brown streams and countless green trees. I walked till I found a road. But the water never stopped flowing alongside. I so wanted to bend and catch some drops when I came to Punnamada Lake. But I pretended to be another grave visitor who watched the lake and the Nehru Pavilion, and was interested in boating for hours on stretch. I managed to not throw my eyeballs out when the friendly boatman named his price. 13000 for a houseboat which I wanted to enter. I had to do with staring ahead at the distant ends of the water which I imagined was really just a straight black line like the one I drew in my notebooks.

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4 Comments »

  1. 🙂

    Comment by Gov — May 21, 2012 @ 19:05 | Reply

  2. Right back at ya Gov 🙂

    Comment by Cris — May 24, 2012 @ 01:28 | Reply

  3. Some stay-a-little-longs are genuine too … 🙂
    Glad to Rosily hasnt changed 🙂 .. and yes her trissur accent too 🙂

    Comment by Indu Lekshmi — May 27, 2012 @ 23:59 | Reply

    • Aww Gundu, I know yours was genuine :-).
      Yea Rosily is still the same no-pretence Thrissur-speaking girl from HAC days 🙂

      Comment by Cris — May 30, 2012 @ 11:53 | Reply


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