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Life is a long, wondrous and continuous introduction to yourself.

The act of creation — it leads me to unknown places. Only to make me realize that all was known, always. And yet, I live every day with the hope that I’ll explore, create and grow into someone new. Because what’s life if not a long, wondrous and continuous introduction to yourself.

In this journey, music lives by my side. I find melody in my writing, and a lot of writing in my melodies. Sometimes, I hear songs in the bubbles of boiling tamarind water. Or in the stroke of red paint over the canvas. Or in the giggles of a child after a good joke. Tunes find their way even into my boredom, curiosity and the thoughts in between. And a rhythm taps into my sorrow, so it can take the leap to laughter.

Such is music. Such is life — yours and mine.

Hello!

Being Cheenu

J.Srinivasan/ Srinivasan Ji /Srinivasan Sir /Cheenu Uncle

Yen-Ya/ Yaar

Papa/ Appa/ Popsi

Superthatha/ Thatha/ Naanu

Athimber/ Peripa/ Chachu/ Chitappa/ Cheenu Mama

Dad at my wedding (September 2011)

He had a thousand names, hundreds of roles, and plenty of duties. Yet he was, as I saw it, always himself.

I was born when he was thirty years old. With each passing year, month, day, and sometimes every moment, I discovered something new or learned more about him.

My earliest memory of him is via a photograph. In that picture, I am on the windowsill, with the iron bars gripped tight in my hands, and my face loaded with an anger unsuitable for a 3-year old.

Years later, he told me I was angry because everyone had surrounded my newborn sister. I had insisted that she be sent back to wherever she came from — only then, I said, I would leave the iron bars and come down the windowsill. Later, someone from the family, perhaps mom’s aunt, offered to give my sister in my lap. It was then that I let go of the bars.

Even though I have a faint memory of everything else that day, I remember the moment I held my baby sister. It was as if my anger, envy, cry for attention were still at the window.

I sat on a stool with the feather-like life on my lap and an explosion of love in my heart. It’s my first memory of love — an instinct to care for someone, my sister.

He was too, a loving, doting, and in an unfortunate way, a submitting brother. He loved too hard, gave too much, and received nothing but countless pieces of his own heart.

His siblings and their families dismissed his love. They called it ‘bachpana’, childish.

Kavita Srinivasan