The findings.

We often think that we live a life that is very different from others, that our lives are intricately distinct. We tend to feel that no one really understands the life we have lived. But in fact the reality is otherwise; despite all the differences we see, our lives are connected by those thin strands of destiny. At some junctures, we realize that all of us have got a life that is totally understandable; and sometimes, totally understandable even to a person who lived in a different land, with a different mother tongue.

It was past 1.30 in the night and we were still talking. We rarely run out of topic while talking to each other; we find something or the other that keep us up for a long while. The main reason why we have this unlimited supply of topics is that we are people from two different lands, with a million stories to share. Basically we both have lived a life that we are unaware of; have heard stories that neither of us believe upon hearing for the first time and travelled to places that are strange in each others experience. I think this is the most beautiful part of getting to know a person; we get to live a different life altogether. Their stories take us to places we have never been and people we have never seen. We smile, we laugh and at times we cry; for we live with them for that brief period in their story.

I was telling him about the man who came with dresses to our house today. We have this Annan (meaning elder brother in Tamil) who comes once in a week to our village with fabrics for salwars. He comes on his TVS-50, with bundles of clothes tied together, looking as if he rides a truck with all that load. I was telling him about the salwar we brought for our cousin.

There is one thing I enjoy about the way he narrates a story. He gives me the complete picture; the place, the time, the mood, the way the characters behave and everything else that I would ever ask for will be given to me. And I visualize them as if a movie is being played for me. It’s a beautiful experience actually; the times of a story-teller and a listener.

 “ Do you know that I can read and write Tamil ? “; he asks me.

I was a little surprised at that. I wasn’t expecting this ‘born-and-brought-up in Kozhikode’ guy to even speak Tamil.

Sensing the surprise in my voice, I could see the smile on his face. He has a fine crafted smile. The kind that earns a smile back, even when don’t see the face. I smiled, expecting the story to come.

The narrator cleared his throat and began. I adjusted my phone to proper position.

This is happening some fifteen years back. My narrator was very young back then, a little boy. There was this Annan who used to visit his place with a bundle of clothes tied which he carried on his head. He would come in the afternoon, every Friday. The man was from Coimbatore, a place in Tamil Nadu. My narrator has a strong love for music and languages and this Annan was something of a treasure for him. Annan taught him Tamil every week. The little guy waited with a specially made tea for his teacher every Friday, and added another language to his list. The picture of this teacher and disciple, engaged in learning while the monsoon roared outside, stays clear in my eyes.

“ Though I have lost touch with the language now , but I can still read film titles. “ ; he concluded with a soft laugh. And I smiled.

I have always found it beautiful to find common interests with people I meet. There is a certain sense of belonging in that. But when you find that someone has lived parts of our life in a different land at a different time, now that is something entirely different. You know that there is a part of them in your life now, and that a part of you is in theirs. There is question of how seperate our lives are in fact ; a rather awkward question without a satisfying answer. For parts of us might belong to a lot of other people, a lot of people whom we might not even recognize. The lives we live are not very different after all !