rajathtirumangalam

Category: Rajath’s Canvas: Brushstrokes of Identity

  • Rajju’s Marathon: A Stitch in Time Saves a Sprinter’s Rhyme

    At the tender age of 6, in the grand spectacle of my uncle’s wedding, a family gathering turned into a chaotic sprint saga. Picture this: my start was so swift, it rivaled the initial thrust of a Yamaha roadrunner on turbo mode.

    But hold onto your laughter, for here comes the plot twist. A cunning cousin, armed with a sparkling idea, decided to catch my shirt mid-race. Using every ounce of muscle and strength, he pulled with such force that, in my attempt to escape, I jerked my shoulders. In the blink of an eye, I found myself crashing down, landing on the sharp fringe of a bench with a sound that echoed louder than my initial sprint.

    Ouch! The pain and dizziness hit me like a punchline, leaving me as stiff as a log – or perhaps a plank of wood. All I could feel was a hot, wet, sticky substance flowing down the side of my face. Silence fell upon us, my face painted with blood, a gruesome exhibit showcasing a portion of my skull.

    Fast forward to the aftermath – I was whisked away to the clinic in the same metallic beast I had attempted to maneuver. Seven stitches later, my open gash was patched up, resembling a Frankenstein experiment gone wrong.

    Now, in the post-stitch era, the mere thought of running sent shivers down my spine for years. It took a whopping 22 years for me to summon the courage to overcome my running fear. And when I did, it was a comeback story that would make Forrest Gump proud. Alongside a brave colleague, we entered a mini marathon, fully expecting to trot, saunter, amble, and perhaps crawl – but surprise, we ended up in the top 20, leaving both of us astonished and the bench long forgotten in my rearview mirror. 🏃‍♂️🎉😄

  • Rajju’s Rumble: When Tiny Tots Became Bullfight Maestros

    Back in the preschool circus, Rajju, the pint-sized bull kingpin (that’s me), orchestrated a legendary human bullfight with my gang of mischief-makers. Picture this: our hairs sculpted into horns, charging at each other like caffeinated bulls in a china shop.

    We took turns being the rodeo, clowns, and, of course, the tyrant bulls. The whistle blew, and chaos ensued – chalk missiles, paper projectiles, and a water spray extravaganza. Chants and cheers echoed like a symphony, with school bags forming the sacred boundary of our toddler battleground.

    All was peachy until the rival team, attempting to mock the mighty Rajju, started chanting about my alleged weakness. Well, that was the spark in the juice box. It ticked me off like a bee in a soda can, much like Rohit Sharma ruffling Michael Johnson’s cricket feathers. I charged in, steam billowing from my ears, catching my opponent right on the nose.

    For a split second, he looked like a daydreaming astronaut staring at stars in the middle of the day. Tears flowed, and blood put on a Vegas-style fountain show. The act earned me a VIP pass to the principal’s office and a homecoming spanking that left its mark. Was it worth it? You bet! I delivered a lesson he won’t forget: “Don’t poke the bull unless you’re ready for the rodeo!” 🐂🎉😄

  • Biting Back: A Childhood Comedy in Canvas and Teeth

    In the garage, surrounded by the aromatic chaos of paint and creativity, I found myself immersed in my uncle’s masterpiece-making world. Little did I know, my own miniature comedy was about to unfold.

    As a four-year-old thumb-sucking virtuoso, my cousin, armed with macho gusto, decided to play the thumb-yanking game. Once, it was annoying; twice, it became infuriating. But before the third act, I decided to flip the script – I sank my baby teeth into his unsuspecting hand.

    The weeeeeee of the alarm echoed like a siren in a comedy caper, drowning out any semblance of soldier-like discipline in a parade ground. My bite, in the words of a childhood hero, roared louder than a caffeine-fueled lion. A sly smile on my face, and poof! His macho facade vanished like a magician’s rabbit in a hat.

    Enter my uncle, not just a painter but a seasoned detective in the family crime scene. His brush paused, and with a furrowed brow, he turned to me for an explanation. I responded in a silent mime, relishing the mischievous act.

    As Oscar Wilde once said, “I can resist everything except temptation.” Turns out, the temptation to bite back became a sweet revenge orchestrated by the innocence of a four-year-old artist. In the canvas of childhood, every stroke tells a story, and mine had a bite to remember. 🎨😄✨

  • Navigating Shadows: The Unseen Symphony of Tears, Laughter, and Unyielding Spirit

    Introduction:
    In the bustling canvas of Bangalore’s chaos, fate orchestrated a pause, leading me to the tranquil haven of Raichur. Little did I anticipate that life’s palette would be splashed with hues of discovery, a journey through the valleys of emotions, and an uncharted odyssey navigating the shadows.

    Section 1: The Staircase of Revelation:
    Imagine a seven-year-old, innocence clinging to the steps of a Raichur temple – a seemingly mundane stage for the revelation of pigmentosa. The temple, once a sacred sanctuary, transformed into an unexpected theater, setting the stage for the unseen drama that was to unfold.

    Section 2: Schoolyard Laughter and the Pillow Chronicles:
    In the corridors of childhood, laughter echoed, blissfully ignorant of the silent battles raging within. Classmates, unwitting actors in life’s absurd play, tossed the innocent query, “Why not wear specs?” Little did they grasp that the issue wasn’t with lenses but with a rogue retina, orchestrating a chaotic ballet. By age 23, darkness enveloped my world, my tears inscribing tales on my pillow – each stain a poignant chapter in the dance of acceptance and the struggle against an invisible reality.

    Section 3: The Classroom of Nerve Incapability:
    Before the age of 23, life became a peculiar classroom, presided over by an uncooperative nerve. This silent messenger failed to relay visual inputs to the visual cortex, scripting a heartbreaking narrative of gradual visual decay leading to the ultimate loss. It wasn’t a choice; it was an uninvited guest, a betrayer of the visual symphony orchestrated by my eyes.

    Section 4: The Abyss of Two Years:
    As details unfold about those two years spent in darkness, the pillows bear witness to a chronicle of solitude. A haunting thought reverberated – life was over. The abyss within mirrored the external void, where hope seemed as elusive as a mirage.

    Section 5: National Association for the Blind: A Missile’s Re-Launch:
    Amidst the abyss, the National Association for the Blind emerged as a beacon, a sanctuary where the metaphorical missile named Rajath underwent a re-launch. It was the eureka moment – all wasn’t lost. The NAB, a guiding force, illuminated the path forward, teaching me to navigate life without sight.

    Section 6: Gratitude to Technology and Family Support:
    The realization dawned like the first rays of dawn – technology stood as an unsung hero. Without it, accomplishments would remain locked behind an inaccessible door. Yet, technology alone couldn’t be the knight; the persuasive charm, unyielding support, and unwavering belief of mom and dad became the pillars steadying my crumbling world.

    Section 7: Emotional Rollercoaster: A Symphony of Pain and Laughter:
    This intricate journey is an emotional rollercoaster, a wild ride sparking reflections and bitter reminders of the once attainable. Losing something akin to being kicked real hard tests resilience to its very fabric. It’s a painful tango, a dance of hurt and disappointment that unfolds like a gripping drama.

    Section 8: Support Systems: The Lifelines in Stormy Seas:
    Behind the placid exterior lies storms, hurricanes brewing within. Expressing the depth of pain, hurt, and disappointment to another person is like attempting to convey the vastness of an ocean with mere words. The family, life partner, and a circle of friends are not just supporters but lifelines, helping navigate the emotional turbulence.

    Conclusion: The Unfinished Symphony Continues…
    As I inscribe this chapter, the journey persists, an ode to resilience, laughter, and the unwavering support that becomes a guiding light through the darkness. The mirror reflects not just an external image but the profound depths of a soul that has weathered storms and continues to dance through the symphony of life. Words may falter, but they stand as a testament to the indomitable spirit that propels me forward. To be continued, as the unseen symphony of my life plays on…