It was a cold December morning and I pulled my scarf up.
Dad and I were on an adventure.
Dad said a two wheeler would work better to navigate the narrow roads. He was right.
We had to stop every few metres to ask for directions – in an era when navigation didn’t exist.
My 3rd language in school was Kannada – a subject I quite detested.
I oft got the genders and/or the syntax wrong.
And in 12th grade, that stood between me and getting my perfect score.
We were on the quest for a text book we couldn’t find – one that I was I was adamant would get me my 90+ score in Kannada.
Dad relented – he had managed to find out where the author lived. The author of this little known Kannada text book. We would go right to the source to procure one if we had to.
After narrow gullies, traffic that is a constant and getting drenched in a light Bangalore showers, we finally arrived.
I stood in front of this fading brick house with red hibiscus covering the gates, wondering how to introduce myself.
It was near dusk by the time we procured what we went looking for – this book with a yellow dust jacket with bold red font.
Proud with our victory, we rode back hoping not to face Amma’s ire.
As I sat pillion holding on to Appa, I read phrases from it. Maybe it was derived Sanskrit.
I can’t find the Kannada version but there is one verse recall vividly.
“Chithe chinthe yor madhye bindu matra visheshta,
Chithe dahati nirjeevam
Chinthe dahati jeevitham”
“Chithe” (ಚಿತೆ i.e. Pyre) and “Chinthe” (ಚಿಂತೆ i.e. Worry) are said to be same, difference is just a dot.
“Chithe (Pyre) burns the dead, while Chinthe (Worry) burns the living”
There is no lessons here.
Just spend time with your parents.
You never know what lone memory you will retain after years.
“When I left for college, I had many decades left with living parents, but only about one year of time left to spend with them.” – Tim Urban
Do you have a favourite memory with your parents?
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