The Piano Man's Jazz

They chuckle, they smile, they forget
You are the original superhero
In the chaos of today.
With your black jacket turned away.

To pay  homage to the blues' gods.
Emphatically. Pa pam. Pa pam.
John Coltrane's Impressions
Of Beatrice's undying love.
Smoothening out the creases of my life.
With each playful caress of the piano keys.

And when the crescendo is at its peak
Mere mortals shall look away.
From the reverberating tunes you create.

That conversation between the angelic piano 
And the devilish drums.
THAT conversation.
Says as much as the first flints
That made fire.
And as little. As you and me, online...

Jazz is the flirtatious romance
Between mountains and rhododendron flowers.
Escalating from red to pink to white.
From passion to poetry.
Pure sound is pure poetry too.
Afterall.

And when the end is nigh
The boys are having fun
With summer roses and autumn leaves.

Outside, the winter beckons.
Toward a jubilant end.
To this jazz recital.

THEY can't take that away from me.

Diwali and That Missing Link

Diwali, when the city forgets to blame
A date, a week of happiness defined by dates.

You sit in your Audi, ordering gifts online to send away
So that you could network and buy more metal wheels.
I watch you from the pavement,
Wondering if I can buy myself a new gunny sack as a treat
To hold all those left-over sweets from your garbage bins

I am the missing link you forget to feed.
I am the missing link electrocuted in lighting up your homes, to invite Lakshmi.

You stroll around the mall, buying candles and sweets
Hoping to find that perfect bride for your well-bred son.
I watch you from the servant quarter
Which you've rented out to immigrants like me.
I miss home too, yet cannot afford to return.
Wondering if you'll light a candle for me too
Or will those only be mine if I am raped in the city?

I am the missing link you forget to love
I am the missing link orphaned while you cram the fridge with foods, to invite Lakshmi.

You chatter to me excitedly about the new phone daddy's buying 
So you can take hotter pictures of yourself.
You're so excited to go on that Europe trip
That your daddy bought you.
I watch your enthusiasm with envy
Wondering if I wore those little hot pants
Would I get away with it too?

I am the missing link you forget to help
I am the missing link walking a desert, where you plant carpets, to invite Lakshmi.

You talk about helping the poor this Diwali
So you could add another insightful idea to your resume
You're known to be the angel activist and voice for us marginalised
I watch how people admire your gusto, your faded kurta.
Wondering in my mind, how do you get away with it?
Your haircut cost more than my monthly wage.

I am the missing link you use as child labour
I am the missing link that sits in the dark, while you add another trophy, to invite Lakshmi.

That missing link is not for us to exploit.
That missing link is not wealth hungry
That missing link only wishes to join- you and me
And create, the complete whole.

Happy Diwali, if you bring the missing link back into the mould.

Noise

The traffic light towers ominously above

In its countdown of your death race.

You call it life, the green signal calls it rat race.

Innocence is shattered into a million dust particles

By the blaring horns here.

The chaste are stripped till they become one

With the savage,

Pruning themselves in luxurious cars

For the midnight orgy called night life

In the city.

Aspire to be one amongst the brute.

Aspire to procure shiny metal packaged in murderous fuel.

And then, you will hear

The symphony of necessary evil;

The song of dis-illusive reality—

Coiled tightly around your dream—city noise.

A Walk with Gustav

The silence of the mountains at night can instill one with a sense of unnerving purity. Even at day time, the birds, bees and an occasional dog barking in a distant village are the only sounds one hears. The sheer lack of any noise somehow tends to refresh my memory.

I am here, in the only place that offers a surreal calmness and yet, I am torn up within to sighs behind this façade of normalcy. I think this is the true definition of ‘life’.

I can keenly feel the transition into adulthood, into boredom, into mental stress that presses upon you, creeps into the crevices of your soul, as eerily as mists and clouds passing across hills. A slow yet steady and dampening catharsis—of impact, ideas and irony.

Gustav too, does not understand my pain. He’s always had a cheering effect on me, helping me alleviate sorrow, blocking away the memories that come as suddenly and as heavily as cloud bursts.

I decide to walk with him amidst the lonely mountains, free birds and a humming breeze drenched in pure snow.

The silence deafens me to a numbness of the mind that veers close to abysmal insanity. I am lost—in every definition of the phrase.

Gustav, however, is rock solid by my side. He looks away when tears fall helplessly from my eyes, onto the rock-table below. He tugs at my hand and pulls me toward the local tea-shop, silently saying, ‘Time to eat’.

While I peck at a plate of noodles and milky, sweet tea, Gustav regards a group of young men with caution. With a slight hint of aggression.

He ignores their bickering and maintains his poise, waiting for me to finish my typically hill station meal.

Gustav and I are more than friends, in one short walk. It is a love that, unspoken, says everything.

Gustav is a white mountain dog. And I am a dusky city girl. The universe works in unusual ways—I learnt and experienced love most keenly, not from or with another human being, but from man’s best and perhaps oldest friend—a dog.

Mildly Offensive Content

A warm sky and rusty swings in the park.

I like to sit on the swings in early evening hours

Else, I am bullied into a corner by the stronger kids.

I’ve even got a chocolate to keep me company

As the swing talks to me, excitedly:

Scree-scronk, scree-scronk

Scree-scronk, scree-sconk.

You watch me from the bench and smile.

I see you have another chocolate and that’s a magnet, right there.

The shiny wrapper, your encouraging smile and then,

Your hand against my thigh, climbing up.

I begin to cry and your penis alerts itself to just, that.

My muffled screams, my bloody torn vagina and your hands

Your hands on my adolescent breasts.

These images, will stay.

Too young to remember.

My mother never lets me out of her sight.

And I have a natural aversion to brown beards

To pot bellies of old men, that make me nauseous.

Is it because of you? I’m never allowed to talk to you.

Did you strip me naked and eject your lust on my infantile body?

And now, your own daughter sits astride your lap, with TRUST.

I liked a boy and movies about perfect snogging.

I also loved sparkly nail paint and vibrant dresses

That made the boys in class smile at me.

Then you offered to take me to our tuition center.

And my teenaged mind was ecstatic

“Teacher will drop me. Mouths will jabber. Yay!”

The people talked, but not in envy. In pity.

And I, grew obese in the confines of my room.

Remembering the bougainvillea creepers that pricked my face.

As you tore threw me, with your erectile monster.

I now eat away, the memories of after.

Of dropping out, of baggy clothes and losing my body

To the love of carbs that don’t and won’t rape my solitude.

Trust and its emissions on a young working woman.

I’m me, I’m her and I’m nobody.

I’m the girl you see on the metro and forget.

I’m the girl haggling with auto drivers that you glimpsed from your car.

I’m the girl who loves discounts in the city malls.

I’m the girl who lived next door to you and borrowed coffee.

So you knew, I smoke, I stay up late. Alone.

I’m the girl you came to, pretending to be hurt, asking for a bandage.

I’m the girl who took you in, out of humanity, without my pepper spray.

I’m now the girl you raped, tying up my wrists with that camping rope you bragged about.

I’m the girl into whose mouth you shoved, the carabiner, for silence.

I can never climb a rock or go on a trek. Again.

The old lady buying vegetables in the colony.

You would touch my feet, and offer to carry my bags.

I thought it was respect, it was sympathy for my asthma ridden body.

I should conform to my type— old, widowed and wise from age.

I did just that, and treated you as a son.

You came to fix the leaking kitchen pipe.

Instead, you took my trembling body and ravaged it.

You reaped a long lost harvest and walked away, laughing.

It was only a challenge from mindless friends, to you.

All of these are stories, one and many.

All of these are voices, silent and vocal.

All of these are orphans of society— the absent parent.

All of these women, are and could be— you and me.

Writer's Block

It’s been a while since I wrote anything worthwhile; heck, anything at all. The sense of an impending writer’s block is scary in all its granduer— delusion, annoyance, restlessness. And the sense of losing your mind to the ravages of time and age frustrate my anxiety, hitherto used to childish fantasies and reckless writing.

I find myself, searching more and more desperately, for an outlet from this abyss. Even in penning down these thoughts, comes the most feared monster proclaiming ‘this is shoddy’, ‘this is not your style’ and the worst, reserved for last ‘this is average’.

I find myself asking, ‘Do I need a holiday to restart the thought process in my uncontrollable mind?’, ‘Do I need to start exercising more vigorously?’, ‘Am I eating too much packaged food?’. And yet, I know this is all age taking its toll on the child I wish I could always be.

With youth, came excitement and the possibility of attaining life, hands full. With graduation, came the anticipation of landing a job, becoming a senior at work. And now, with work, comes a sense of stagnation— work responsibly, party responsibly, and respect your body. Rinse, and repeat after each weekend.

I find myself shying away from meandering thoughts—inking a date on a dried leaf as a memoir, staring at people on the metro train and imagining a hundred different tales of their lives, imagining the big city as a zombie land with animals running free and people in zoos; from spontaneous actions—blowing back kisses to a street kid, buying biscuits for a puppy, cancelling a haircut appointment because I was floored by a kitten in a dark alley; from mindless decisions— buying lunch for everyone in the office team for no reason, spending money on a lavish dress that a friend liked, just to see her happy, telling my landlady that despite her outrageous relatives, I miss her when I am away.

I believe expectations are a problem here, and a norm in the world. But words like renunciation, expectations, belief make me feel like a fake organic-vegetable-eating-hypocrite who lives in luxury and buys health food at exorbitant rates.

I wish the fireflies I tried to bottle into a torch as a child, fearless in the thickening darkness of the night, would come back to enamour me and haunt away this subservience to the right path.

Being Chased By The Rain

Earlier, I read about bomb attacks, rapes, suicides and abductions in the newspaper. I would ensconce myself safely in the warmth of a sofa at home, and read casually, sipping my tea. Now, in the recent past, these incidents have happened to friends, to acquaintances or to people I shared a public space with, on a daily basis.

I just got to know about a crime in JNU. Apparently, a man attacked a classmate with an axe; she screamed in pain, in terror; and he proceeded to slit his own throat and consume poison. While they were rushed to the hospital, a knife and a pistol were also recovered from his bag. He died on the way, but she is in a critical state.

When we look at a crime from a distance, we assume this cannot happen to us, or to those near us. When these crimes happen to people you knew even distantly, the enormity of it strikes with full force. Last week, a friend of mine was found possibly raped and murdered in a hotel room in Bihar. Despite active online campaigning for justice, I know in my heart that not much will be done. I know for a fact that enthusiasm will die down. I know for certain, that it will take years to bring justice for a crime committed without remorse.

Last evening, while returning from work in the evening, I noticed the urgency in everyone’s footsteps. They were scurrying to run home, to escape the onslaught of the rain on Delhi roads. Our CM says ‘one can/must only pray’ to avoid water-logging, flooding on the streets. So, we ran home-ward bound, to avoid being electrocuted by AC wires hidden in the rain, to avoid car engines breaking down in the middle of a road, where the water reaches its bonnet, to avoid being drenched and leered at by by-standing men, to avoid the costs of over-charge to cabs and autos—to avoid, being dead, raped or destitute.

While in the shared auto, I could see the raging black clouds behind us, creeping up stealthily, consistently. And each one of us, meek as a mouse, was hoping to get home, to escape the fury.

Being chased by the rain brought on realisations of growing up, of stressing out, of realizing the mortality of parents, of siblings, of friends, of yourself. Being chased by the rain, made me dwell on the horrors around me. Being chased by the rain made me look within, and wonder, is human existence meant to be so fragile? So futile? So worrisome?

I’d rather be a dragonfly, unaware and free to flit past the monsters of humanity.

For Sneha

For Sneha, a brave and spirited woman, who was found possibly raped, and murdered in a hotel room in Munger, Bihar.

She was a shining example of a state
That has become a metaphor- Bihar.
She fought for independence, for disengagement.
From her tribes of yore.
She revolted to become a phenomenal woman.
To break the shackles of slavery
Her womankind had been bruised with.
She revelled in laughter, in children, in the little things.
She turned the government on its head
Being a part of the system that mocked her.
Working, shoulder to shoulder, with men
Who wondered agape at her ferocity.
She gave herself to educating the little ones-
Still clueless of the marshes that lay before them.

She now hangs, by a chlorine scented bedsheet
From the window- semi-nude, for the world to see.
They heard her muffled screams, they heard that cry.
And muted themselves against the carnal monster
Feeding himself off her.

They said it was suicide.
They said it was HER.
She is dead now. Dead.
In the inhumanity of your warm, safe homes.
Dead. In the sub-altern theories
Written with your pens of power.
Dead. In the comforts of marginalisation.

Go. To. Sleep.

Nameless

All things of beauty

Can be found in the penance

Of the trash big cities churn out.

Painted on your walls, with precision

Are the works of art that come

With dollar tags imprinted on your mind.

This is your weapon against loneliness.

This is your armour against the solitude

That your soul craves.

A squirrel on a rhododendron tree

Nibbling away with alacrity

Will only seem wondrous

If you paid $1000 a night

At that resort you planned a vacation at.

To ease the numbness that defines you.

Any other day, you would brush away.

An an annoying monsoon insect

The jarring image of the old withering man

Picking his lunch from the trash can.

Where you chucked your potato fries-

Cheap and unhealthy, to you treadmill toned body.

As you munch on a herbed salad.

And discuss innocuous details

Of a rat race that you won, and he lost.

Live your reality of soundless screams.

Live the horror of 'a life well accomplished'.

Accomplished, yes. Within your amnesia of ideology. 

Rains, amma and wipers

Oh look, a wiper. Instead of a regular broom, to literally sweep away the water. I remember looking at this ‘wiper’, wide-eyed as a child. It had been bought to clear away water that was streaming down the staircase of our under-construction first floor.

I remember being allowed to stay up till pretty late at night, using this wiper to clear away water while I watched any cartoon of my liking, on television. I must have been twelve years old, and my delight knew no boundaries.

Since the staircase came down into the living room, my uncle and I took turns keeping the room dry. I was so amazed by this ‘wiper’ and how one didn’t need to mop after using it, that I even proudly compared our house to the Taj hotel for being so ‘fancy’, for having a cleaning utility item that most middle-class families at that time, would have coveted as pure, unadulterated luxury.

Tonight, I came home to a water-logged apartment at my sister’s place. We had two wipers this time around, in a house meant for one person. They did not register in my mind as novelties. As we cleaned up, complaining unabated, about the horrors of living on rent in the big city, the laxity of a money-minded maid and how pitiful our lives were, I thought about my grandmother.

My father had arranged for her funeral for the next day, so that I could see her. I arrived late in the night; our drawing room had been cleared out to place cold, unaware-of-their-doomed-presence ice slabs on the floor. On them lay my grandmother. My first reaction was to run to the closet and cover her in a warm blanket. She always complained of being cold; how could they put her on a slab of ice? She’s too delicate.

For hours, I cried by her side, nudging her shoulder, pushing away that one astray strand of hair, and asking her to wake up and smile at me. This is not a heart-rending tirade of her death. This is the story of wipers.

Eventually, I gave up on waking her up. My mind told me, ‘Look, she’s finally extremely mad at you. For leaving her, for going away, for not understanding the pains of old age and for forgetting about her. She won’t wake up, she’s mad at everyone. She will pretend to be asleep, hold her breath and rather disappear into an electric crematorium than wake up for any of you.’

I did not give up trying for four hours. Then I decided, she likes the ice. I’ll make her more comfortable. My grandmother could never stand a messy house, and always had a problem with spilt water. She feared, endlessly, that someone might slip and break their backs. And now, slowly seeping from below her, was a cold, unending stream of water, collecting in pools around the room.

I grabbed a wiper and began mopping. I did it all night long. I would look over my shoulder at her, wondering if she’d approve. I would look at my uncle sleeping in the next room, who would awaken with a start to not find his mother by his side. But the wiper, my constant companion kept my tears at bay.

The cold, white dead body of my grandmother, the yellow poled wiper and the thinning ice are images I carry with me. Each time I mop away rain water, each time I sip a drink cooled with ice, and each time I look at that empty bed back home, whose occupant never welcomed me without a smile.

Nameless

There are words that become old friends.
There are words that become bitter enemies.
I like saying cobbler and pebbled street
Savouring them on my tongue like new candy to a child
I like saying cougar too.
Cougar, cougar, cougar.
Not like the woman with a teenaged daughter
Sagging and perky, sticking out.
Red lips and pink lips hiding age and youth alike.
No, not cougar like that.
Cougar, more like the instinctive animal.
Cobbler more like a man of stories
Than a mechanic of shoes.
Pebbled street where I can walk barefeet
And feel the alternating cool and hot,
Like fresh cookies and an oreo shake.
I could never say 'supercalifragilisticexpialidocious'
Without sounding overly rich
Like a young man with drug money
His father gave him after severing a derelict's head.
I like my people the same way too.
Not long twisting carboard cut-outs you could buy at the mall.
More scented like fresh earth on a wet morning day.

This is how I can fill up those empty spaces
That jut out like abandoned shop windows in me.
This is how I will continue
To say words. Cobbler, pebbled street and cougar.

Something worth sharing in the light of the recent Kedarnath tragedy

Perils of plain-speak in U.P. by Prashant Kumar

The suspension on June 28 of U.P.’s Special Secretary Revenue, Gurrala Srinivasulu, who plainly briefed the media about the casualties in the Uttarakhand disaster, has caused much annoyance among the I.A.S. officers in the state. The action, however, did not surprise those who have been watching with concern the antics of successive governments here for the past two decades. Repeatedly pestered by the media for several days to reveal the exact number of deaths of the pilgrims, tourists and rescuers from the state, the officer innocently spoke the truth: “How could one tell about the number of those who died when the number of people returning alive cannot be counted properly.” A section of the media, hungry for scandals, described the “comment” as “insensitive” and the government rushed to control “damage” to its “reputation” by ordering immediate suspension of the officer. 

Curiously, U.P. Chief Minister Akhilesh Yadav had a few days back told the media at Lucknow that his government had paid a compensation of twenty lakh rupees to the families of each of the two rescuers from U.P. who had died in the chopper crash. A couple of days later, the media were officially informed that the crash victims from the state were as many as five and not just two. Given the large number of unidentified bodies recently found in and around Ramabada in Rudraprayag district and more feared buried under the silt, which “sensitive” government officer could cite an exact number of deaths of the pilgrims or the tourists from U.P. or, for that matter, any other state?

Whereas Uttarakhand Chief Minister Vijay Bahuguna has put the flash flood death toll at one thousand, the hill state’s Speaker Govind Singh Kunjwal claimed on June 30 that the figure could very well cross ten thousand. How does one expect any officer of any state to give a correct figure in such a confused scenario?

A state government that takes pride in honouring tainted officers (including convicts) with prized posts, and frequently keeps dozens others on wait list just because they do or do not belong to a particular caste or lobby, has no moral right to define sensitivity or its antonym. Victimisation of innocent officers (this time a Dalit), who are not cunning enough to hide embarrassing truths, does no good to the image of a government facing a severe deficit not only of officers and budget, but public trust as well. 

On the Kedarnath floods

 My article in OutlookIndia, click here:
http://www.outlookindia.com/article.aspx?286547

 For the original, here it is:

The smaller voices must be heard. Of the shepherd who looks worryingly at the snow peaks that seem to have an extra cloud cover than usual, of the water bearer who is apprehensive of the stream water being cooler than normal, of the woman carrying firewood and cattle feed home, wondering why the wood is mossy and not just damp like every year.

The Kedarnath tragedy has been explained away by geologists as flash floods, as an avalanche of slush and mud that came hurtling down the Kedarnath Dome. Logically, everybody is more focused on the rescue work, its feasibility and of course, its criticism pinpointed at the State and Central governments. 

Geographically, the mountains are still young and vertically rather than horizontally inclined. Hence, flash floods, cloud bursts during the monsoon are the norm here. The natives of the area are habituated to varying degrees of damage that the monsoon unleashes on them each year. Flash floods had destroyed 20 out of 2200 villages in Almora district in 2010. Should this, however, remain the normal pattern of life in the hills?

Nonchalantly describing life in the mountains for the locals and the army, an officer tells this writer that the monsoons are difficult times, perhaps harsher than the winter. Shepherds cannot take their cattle out to graze due to torrential rains, local viruses thrive and sicken the children, dry firewood and provisions become prized possessions. Winters can be handled with woolens and fires. He speaks of army casualty in 2011, due to a cloud burst, while attempting to summit the Bandarpoonchh peak in the lower Himalayas. He also speaks of the casualties suffered by the army while attempting to build bridges over swollen rivers and strong water currents.

The issue at hand must be how to avoid severe damage in such disasters, rather than focus on an effective cure after human life has been lost in alarming numbers. Climate change is a global phenomenon, but we hardly seems to care about it, beyond aping the West in gentrifying our ghettos, increasing the GDP and becoming increasingly consumerist.

Perhaps we have something to learn from the Inuit tribe of the Arctic region. The Inuit are a group of culturally similar indigenous people inhabiting the Arctic regions of Greenland, Canada, United States and Russia. Their trade, movement and hunting depend majorly on the amount of ice in the Arctic, and visible climate changes have affected their lifestyles in a massive way. The elder generations of the Inuit have been collecting data on climate change, in their own fashion, for centuries. Their knowledge is now incorporated into scientific studies of the region. Subhankar Banerjee attracts our attention to this phenomenon in his book, Arctic Voices: Resistance at the Tipping Point.

There are frequent indications of the weatherman’s limitations in this country. In January 2012, parts of Pathankot in Himachal Pradesh witnessed snowfall for the first time in recorded history. “The met officials,” the Indian Express reported, “could not elaborate the reasons behind the event.” In January last, villages like Kana and Jwalabanj in Almora district of Kumaon witnessed heavy snowfall after decades. And the same area reported intense heat and unheard of temperatures in March this year. 

It is interesting to note that the locals seem to sense climate change far better than people who study the phenomenon. In Kumaon region this year, locals were convinced that things were a little unusual. The signs of climate change here were subtle. Steering down a road at Bhawali in Nainital district, a local cab driver looks down at the Kosiriver and says, “the current is stronger than usual. I’m sure the rains will play havoc but the pilgrims will not stay away even if the roads vanish completely”. Similar stories were heard at Kapkot in Bageshwar district of Uttarakhand, where the Saryu runs its course.

This year the rhododendron flowers blossomed in the beginning of February instead of the usual end of March or early April. There was more snowfall than is normal in Leti area of Bageshwar district of Kumaon, going on till early March. This was followed by intense bouts of harsh sunlight and heat over the next few days. Clouds over the Panchachuli range would usually move in over the peaks around sunset, but this year it would happen close to mid-evening. Cloud inversions are common but not an everyday phenomenon, like they were this year.

It is the ordinary local people who always witness such changes in weather conditions, suffer the damage and set up their own meager rescue operations. Why do we ignore these voices? 

Kedarnath witnesses a footfall of thousands of pilgrims each year. This season and next year too, will presumably witness similar numbers. Some might be mourners seeking blessings for those who lost their lives in this tragedy, while others will challenge themselves to face the harsh conditions of this terrain, in lieu of ‘God’s’ blessings.

Devotees of Lord Shiva have put up pictures on the internet, proudly stating how despite the damage, the Kedarnath temple stands proud. Pictures of Shiva’s statue too, show a smiling god, head held proudly above the slush and its debilitating current. What people fail to realize is that religious fervor alone cannot stand strong against the important messages that nature is sending our way, on an alarmingly regular notice. Isn’t human life far more precious than the stone model of a temple?

It is indeed, pitiful, that Garhwal or Kenderkhand (meaning: of forts) could not fortify itself against the wrath of nature that seems to connote more than we are willing to understand. We can only hope that the voices of the marginalized masses will be given more importance than their categorization into evening market square gossip; and effective measures will be taken to minimize damages from such calamities.

The Shadow Proves the Sunshine

Without lending it a plethora of idealist thought or fanciful moralizing, here’s a true story for those who believe in what switchfoot so beautifully presented in the song: “The Shadow Proves The Sunshine”.
Early on in December, several years ago, I boarded a public tempo to make it to school in time. School buses have their history of negligence and errata, and mine too failed to arrive at all. No one being home, I had to fend for myself. Bunking was out of question, exams being on their way.
As I sat impatient, waiting for the tempo to fill up (a hazy hope considering it was early morning and winter had set in with its infamous bone-chilling winds), I looked out of the window and saw many cars whiz by; those richer, luckier, without-a-worry-in-the-world schoolkids being escorted by parents or chauffeurs. Needless to add, I felt very lonely and uncared for. While these students made it on time thanks to doting parents, my father always expected independence from me. Something I learnt a lot from, but at that point of time in a particular situation it just hurt and made me hate him.
So I waited, knowing that once I reach, I would be chided for indiscipline and laziness while those enjoying all the luxuries their parents shower on them would be upheld as wonderful “responsible” kids.
It was then that I noticed a little boy of twelve sitting next to me, trying very hard to peep into my satchel and also gazing at my uniform as if it was a rare treat for the eyes.
As against my neatly polished shoes and trim clothes, this boy was dressed in filthy rags and had no shoes on. I could also notice sharp little cuts on his feet which showed signs of continuous bleeding. A wave of sympathy and utter helplessness hit me. I tried initiating a conversation with him. I asked him what he was carrying in that bigger-than-himself sack. He looked at it, chuckled and told me that he worked in a liquor shop which paid him Rs.30 a month and also allowed him to carry home the empty bottles which he then sold for a rupee each. On further prodding, he said that he lived with his mother and whatever he earned, he handed over to her.
On this particular day, he was traveling on a vehicle because the previous night some drunkard had manhandled him and in the resulting commotion, he had lost his pair of slippers. He rued over the “immense” loss of money it would be to him, in making this trip since he was unable to walk home bare-footed.
I offered him a sandwich which he devoured and looked up at me, smiling a smile that shone to his eyes, a dazzle of happiness on his face and yellowing teeth bursting forth from a grin. As our destinations came closer, all I could do for him then was to pay his fare but, he refused and quite vehemently so, to take any more money from me which I had offered so that he could buy himself shoes.
As I began walking up the school driveway, noticing other schoolgirls chatting, fidgeting, walking around…those smiling faces, it struck me that I had learnt a very important lesson from that boy.
There I was, cribbing about the lack of a car to take me to school, considering the tempo a huge nuisance; and here was someone much younger than me, with the responsibilities of a family, for whom the very idea of using a vehicle was a prized issue.
There I was, bitterly fighting back tears at my parents’ “uncaring attitude”; and here was someone who selflessly earned to provide for a widowed mother.
There I was, wondering what light existed in my life with these shadows all around; and here was someone, who taught me that, the shadow proves the sunshine...

Nameless Verse

I yearned for a walk

So I went to the jungle of lights

A jungle of shiny trees, magic steps and bland flowers

In the jungle, I saw the shops of wealth

I went to the shoe shop and saw people

Spending 5000 on a pair of zero comfort shoes

Shoes that made them yelp with pain and glee

Shoes that convinced them,

It’ll land me good sex on the weekend.

The air was rank with their leather-worn thoughts

So I went to the clothes shop and saw people

Spending 10000 on a jacket of stars

Clothes with no warmth but all sexiness

Clothes that convinced them,

It’ll land me good sex on the weekend.

The air was tepid with fools

So I went to the cosmetics shop and saw people

Spending 12000 on things to wash themselves with

Creams and shampoos of fruit and herbs

That cannot be eaten but convinced them,

It’ll land me good sex on the weekend.

The air was nothingness hanging, like a black hole

So I went to the food shop and saw people

Spending 3000 on pizza and beer

Exclaiming, “this is a good deal!”.

Eating here gives me a good reputation.

It’ll land me good sex on the weekend.

The air was worse than the other stores,

So I left this jungle and went outside

I saw a box for orphanage donations.

All these people, they frowned and looked away.

They would not spend even a 100 on it.

They complained of charity seekers populating their jungle

I laughed and walked away, knowing

It’ll not land them good sex on the weekend.

Awake in Amma's Memories

The silence of a dead person

Screams into my sleepless nights

Little films of her life

Play a muted show in my head.

Reality stabs a dull, permanent heartache

Into the cliches of old books I've read--

All stand true about death.

Regret, gratitude, the unknown,

Loss and shattered lives--

All haunt me in solitude.

The physical nothingness is a mere catalyst

To her voice that told tales of yore, of morality.

My mind softens the blow with delusion--

"She's only gone a while".

My heart retorts, throbbing--

"Why is she gone even a while?"

I am treading a path I have not yet found

Of the loss of the few left behind.

I have realised hopelessly--

Torment of death is lifelong.

The Forgotten Tale of Myths

I like watching mythological serials with my grandmother. As the sun pours out relentlessly outside, wilting our garden plants, i smile to myself – happy to have the air cooler breezing right to my face. It is this sense of relief from physical discomforts that makes me relish home.

Home becomes a luxury during vacations; you get to sleep on a comfortable bed, use electricity without a worry about your meter charges; eat without first lightening your wallet and use working geysers and flushes instead of buckets! For a student, these become treasured items that home promises. And I, for one, am exceedingly happy about these, besides all the fun an elderly grandmother and a quirky father can provide.

Our daily ritual involves some very very diverse schedules. I , for as long as i can remember, I wake up at sharp 6am only to throw myself on my grandmother’s bed downstairs and cuddle with her. There is something uniquely strange and comforting about hugging a frail old lady. She is over eighty years old, an asthma patient of the past five decades but has a surprisingly strong hand grip. She cribs , “don’t hog my bed” and i retort, “its only for a while”. Sometimes, if she’s had nightmares, i am allowed to come straight in to comfort her. Half an hour of jostling, teasing and finally being kicked out later, i slump in the third bed in the living room.

My family is a family of sleepers. It is indeed a genetic thing with us that if any of us is ill, you dont have to take care of the sick. Just let me be and let me sleep. Also, we take turns in holding records for number of hours slept! My father being the current champ clocking 18 hours (and no loo breaks). On account of this eccentricity (read, addiction), we have beds or diwans in all the rooms of the house. The drawing room sofa is always the place of contention for us. it is an old brown sofa made worse with huge puddle-like dents, by being slept on by each one of us. my uncle and i love to stretch out on it, arms tucked warmly under the chest, sleeping on our stomachs till finally somebody yells “stop trying to be rip van winkle” or “the cook won’t be happy you didn’t go vegetable shopping”.

The cook has such an intense place of importance in our household, but that is another story. After lunch is done, and my two fathers have finally left to open the bookstore, at 2pm in the afternoon (that also is another story), i am now at peace to relax, nap and watch my grandma’s favourite serials.

My grandmother and I follow a strict regimen when the men are not at home. We nap till 4pm or I wash clothes in the cemented courtyard which reminds me of the winter days i spent there, playing in the sun, while my hyperactive grandmother sun bathed and knitted and chatted with the backyard neighbour, all at the same time.

I was obsessed with chalk when i was little, and i loved drawing all sorts of art (?) on the concrete expanse. This was replaced by the desire to become a skater and the courtyard now became my personal ramp, witness to blood and countless bruises that still scar my legs.

As i hand wash clothes in the courtyard, these memories visit me from time to time. I do not feel like i have grown up at all but then the neighbour’s son peeps out of a window and i gasp, “he’s grown so much, but he was so little just a while ago”. By the time my mathematically retarded mind is able to calculate, i realise he was that young more than a decade ago.

If i am in the courtyard, my grandmother always walks to the door and smiles at me. Since she is always in the danger of falling if walking by herself, i scold, “what are you doing here? You’re not supposed to walk by yourself. What if you fall? What will happen then? How will we manage?”. To this tirade, she merely gives me her most appealing smile and my heart melts.

I cannot expect her to shackle herself to the antique bed in the living room, which is her entire world now. As i yell at her, i feel a pull on my throat like someone is tugging away with nails, right to my heart. And she merely smiles and repeats with a childish monotone, “you’re washing clothes. Then you will make tea for me and then we’ll watch the Ramayana”, ending again with a big smile under her brown framed spectacles.

Heaven help me if i am a minute late in making tea in the evening. She will try every trick in the book to make me wake up or leave the work at hand. This includes not merely our little tea ceremony but also sitting down (not budging at all) for two hours of her serials. Nevertheless, i like this period of watching ridiculously dressed hairy monsters aiming neon-lit arrows at cardboard chariots.

One of my grandma’s favourite tricks is what i like to call “the loo matrix”. This means that if you busy yourself with household chores or are not by her side, she will announce, “i am going to the toilet”. All of us are over-possessive about my grandma and her health. Hence, i go running behind her to assist; she will sit there for exactly two seconds, get up and shuffle across the corridor to her bed. Repeat this a dozen times in a span of half an hour.

The “loo matrix” is something that tests your wits and patience numerous times in a day. it nearly always implies one of us becoming so enraged so as to yell at grandma at the top of our voices; as if shouting will make this incident not repeat itself.

Anyway, its 4pm and of course I need to switch on the television. Grandma will be suspicious if you’ve put on her favourite serial or not because she cannot differentiate on the basis on advertisements and sitcoms. If the brightly robed monsters and gods are not on the screen, I must have put on the wrong channel. This episode repeats itself five days a week until thankfully, the weekend arrives and she knows the serials are not on anymore.

Despite the strains of looking after an elderly person, it is endearing and poignant to watch the Ramayana, the Mahabharata or tales of famous Indian gods with my grandma. She hardly seems to understand much of what is going on and when roused, “why are you not watching?”, she innocently replies, “they’re only fighting”.

Most tales of Hindu gods and goddesses involve wars, prolonged living in the jungles and an indescribable number of monsters and devils, threatening to ruin the perfect ending. The twists and turns in these tales are exhaustive and complete stories in themselves. And that is why i enjoy them.

One unique aspect of these tales of yore is how, despite having watched them umpteen times, one does not tire of them. though the animation is poor (and i am being generous by saying poor), the acting bordering on ridiculous and the costumes and props downright garish, there is a pull and an awe surrounding these tales that even the family soap opera crazed channels cannot ignore.

This two hour television watch involves grandma precociously putting on her spectacles, pulled out carefully from their leather casing; she then wraps one of her umpteen handkerchiefs (another story!) around a finger on the left hand (she had a mild injury on it once, and still believes in curing it by keeping it warm. Its been two years since she bruised it). only when the serial comes on, does she begin to sip her tea, two marie biscuits and an Indian sweet.

I have come to realise that old age shackles as well as releases the binds of life on a person. My grandmother is unconcerned with her own loved ones daily lives; but she shows semblance of remarkable clarity when it comes down to emotions. When i called off my engagement, my grandmother asked me over the phone, “you are happy, right? Don’t be sad”. Simple yet insightful, heart rending yet a joyous realisation that i am still, a little granddaughter to her and always will be.