LOOKING THROUGH HER EYES…

That winter, gave me a story. Gave me a home. Gave me dreams to carry along... That house, is a legend.

There was a portrait that had always been there, conspicuously on that wall. Some said that it belonged to the man of the house. Some, said that it belonged to her lost love. But everyone had to agree upon one thing. The portrait had a soul and its vibrancy was palpable. And when one looks at it , one is bound to smile! The elegance and the poise. If this had been the man, who had captivated her heart, then he was bound to be worthy of her! There where he looked, no one could ever look… It was known only to him. His vision- as clear as that of an albatross! Strange thing, smile. One never knows why one smiles. And one is never able to understand why they are being smiled at. It's very simple. It's just smile. No thoughts. Only smile! She had drawn him. Prabhat, beautifully put that to me. "May be she put that life into that portrait, that she could never live with him- the unsung melody…" I don't know, why. But, I smiled.

All I wanted was truth. Is that true then, that anything, but truth is available to man? I wanted to find out about her life and her mysterious portrait. Prabhat had warned me, that it was never going to be possible. She never let anyone into her mind. But I was confident. There, I stood, watching that portrait. I knew then, that I could find something. A strange sense of belonging there. Prabhat spoke suddenly, "You do realize what you are doing, don't you? Why do you even want to try"? I couldn't answer at once. The portrait... I was trapped. "Avani"? I was startled! I realized that Prabhat was standing beside me, talking to me.. "Yes? ", I replied. But it felt, as though, the reply came from a distant land from someone whom I knew not. Prabhat was smiling..

That house was a legend. Each of its brick had a story to tell. So I had heard. And Prabhat was a wonderful guide. He knew what to tell me. And he told me just that. The gramophone on the mahogany table. A centaury old memory of muted music. Prabhat played a record. The music from it came from another era. The walls were changing. The walls of that house, I felt, were trying to re-live the past… Still, they tried- just to show us, how it used to be. As though to show us the right from wrong... I felt so. The walls were changing. The song was playing. Prabhat was looking at me. He had never looked at me, that way before that day. He was looking at me, as though he had been looking at me like that, for eons. The walls were changing. Prabhat came closer. He held my hand. He was still looking at me as though he had known me for ages. He spoke, softly, "I now think, you are ready to see her"…

The wood beneath my hand, perhaps realized that my pulse was quickening. They were trying to calm me down. But it was a long walk to the room above. Prabhat was helping me as I climbed the stairs. May be the wood beneath my hand had spoken to him. I felt better. I didn't talk much. In fact, I had not talked the entire while, we were at the house! It was not like me. I talked my life. Usually. But today, I was listening. For the first time in my life- I was listening to the house. The moment I entered that house, I knew that the house had recognized me. They were calling out my name as someone would call out to their old friend.. "Avani..Avani.." I heard my name, from all around. And that was why, I was listening. I had reached the floor above. And from here, I had stopped hearing my name. There was only silence. An eloquent silence. A silence that I did not feel like breaking. Prabhat was beside me. He led me through a door. I was entering into a new world…

Eyes, when closed- may seem just closed. But thoughts may fill in those eyes and mind. Mind- a mysterious non-being, or is it a being, for no one knows! Memories, coming together and forming a dream- that appears so real, that it seems to be the future! What is future? No one knows. Not even those who claim to know. Pretty sights of coloured walls! Whatever that means, one knows not. One only knows this- that she lay there, with her eyes closed. But her eyes, one knew- were filled with dreams!

Prabhat's voice was waking me up-"Avani is here, grandma".. She opened her eyes. I felt as though I was now being a part of her dream. She smiled...

Chandraprabha. I had heard a different story. A story of a woman, of heart as hard as iron. A woman whose life had been dedicated to build a home out of a house. But here, I saw a person, who was like any one of us. No. She was not like any one of us. She was as soft as the first touch of a new born. Prabhat had left my side and had sat himself on her bed. "Avani is here, grandma…”

She looked at me. And when she did, I felt I was all alone. I was there. And no one else. Her eyes were looking at mine. And mine only. It was nothing like one human seeing the other. There- her eyes, looked at mine- and mine only. There were no thoughts reflecting her mind when she saw me. Not like a misty outline of a stranger in front. But she was seeing a being. Someone deep inside me. When Chandraprabha looked into my eyes, I felt her seeing me. Me.

I tried to look at her. But I could not. May be it was the life she had lived until today. But all her thoughts were too heavy for me. I could not look at her. I looked at her feet, instead. And in that moment, she spoke. Her voice, as clear as the stream jumping over a few pebbles beneath its surface. "She's beautiful Prabhat.. Come here, child"…I moved closer, my eyes, never leaving her feet. She signaled me to sit on her bed. I did as I was told. She spoke again, "So, you wish to know my story? So Prabhat tells me…" I raised my eyes, to look into her's. Her eyes were smiling.. They knew, somehow, what I would say. I replied, "No. I don't anymore". Prabhat began, "But… you…" Chandraprabha spoke, "Good then. I hope you like being here, as much as I do"... I could now, look into her eyes- strangely. I said, "I am sure, I will". She said, “Now that we understand each other, better, I wish to be excused…" Prabhat, from the way he looked, I knew that he understood nothing. I spoke, "We'd take your leave, then". And we left her room. But her eyes followed me, till I had reached the door. I turned back to see them; they had the same look upon them. She was smiling. Her dreams had come back to her eyes. And now, I could see them too.

It was snowing outside. Prabhat had lighted the fire. We were sitting near the window, watching the snow fall on the window pane. It was sometime later; I realized that he was looking at me. I smiled. He smiled back. He said, "Thank you. I don't know what happened between the two of you, but I have never seen her like this before. Thank you". I did not reply. I looked outside the window. He was still looking at me. I turned towards him again. He spoke, again, "But you could have asked her, about the portrait. About who was the man in that portrait? For I felt that she would have told you.. Why didn't you ask"? I said, "I don't want to know anymore. So I did not ask". He, I felt, was not convinced. I continued, "Prabhat, whoever he may be, must have been a great man, who had seeped in her heart. And their relationship, defies discussion". Prabhat turned to look at the snow. I continued, "I can ask her, if you want to know it". He turned back to me. With a strange look in his eyes. The next moment that look was gone. And he smiled, and said, "No, you need not. I am convinced that I had brought you home".

That winter, gave me a story. Gave me a home. And gave me dreams to carry along. Chandraprabha, or grandma, as I may now call her, had passed on her dreams to me, that winter evening. The house let me in. The house, had probably spoken to her too, about me. Told her what they had told me. She preferred to rest. It was snowing, outside. It was now, next winter. The house was as elegant as ever. It's peaceful slumber, undisturbed by the sudden stranger who had entered into its life, a year before. For I was no longer a stranger to the house. The mahogany table with the gramophone, still played the same song from the other era. The wood beneath my hand, silently thanked me, as I climbed up the stairs to go upstairs. The portrait still lives. The only new thing in that house was a portrait of Chandraprabha, grandma, beside the portrait of the one, she had loved.

There is a love there- that exists- even when there is never anything said about it. It fills, only the heart where it is felt. There is never any questions asked. No answers given. It chooses to be that way. And it should remain that way. A few are able to understand that love. And a few are able to feel it. It gives no reason, no explanation. But chooses to remain, alive- as ever.

From above those stairs, I could see them both, looking delightful together on those walls… And I felt a tear drop from my eyes, as I felt her eyes on me, feebly thanking me. The snow had settled itself on the window pane, as she had left my side, to join him, on their portrait home...

TRYING TO LOOK BEYOND THE PAST!

"Nainon mein badra chaaye.." playing. And I'm here trying to look beyond the past! Strange. But I've never written such a post before! For me, my blog is sacred. There should never be some off the mind write-up on it. So, I used to think. But I got this strange idea, while tagging my photograph at my Facebook profile page!


Madhubala. Beauty that could never be put in words. Every time I see her on screen, I get inspired. The eyes bringing out pain, love and innocence all at once. When I have a house that I could call my own, I plan to have one of her pictures, in the hall, along with my favourite Ravi Verma paintings!

The other day, while traveling in the train, I saw an 'Aravaani'. That's how they are called here. She was so beautiful. I did not know whether to admire her or pity her. For I did not feel that it would be fair to do both together. What's the point of all this?

Memories. There are some photographs in our hearts that stay with us forever. They never fade. I remember- the expression on my mom's face when I got her a gift from my first salary. The drop of a tear that came out of my friend's eyes, on our last day of college. The moment when I received my first punishment. The moment alone, on terrace, playing with sand and stones spread about. But everyone has such memories. What is new about that?

No. There is nothing new about that. No. This is not about trying to look beyond the past.

When the dreams about future start clouding the eyes, the past becomes a faded; misty portrait on the luxurious walls of a brand new home. And the dreams never show you these photographs. For there is always a space there, in those frames, that could accommodate more. When the eyes begin to search for the details of the pictures, they are nowhere to be seen! But there is a strange feeling in seeing them. Somewhere inside, a voice whispers, proudly- I used to be that! Suddenly, you feel defensive. You say to yourself- And now, I am this! The gap hangs there.

Even now, I enjoy listening to Ghantasala singing to the tunes of Aadi Narayana Rao. I like watching the black and white movies with prince and princess floating on a flying carpet! Some of my friends laugh at me. There was a time when I felt afraid to share my tastes with them. Not anymore. But what is wrong in listening to these songs? Watching these movies?

I wish to confess something here. I love to spend a holiday shut in a room, all alone. "Main aur meri tanhaayee".. we don't talk. But we like sharing those moments of silence together. That's what we have in common. Flashes from the past- come in and go away. We never feel awkward. We rather enjoy it.

A note on 'Getting a life'! Isn't this a life too?

I see an old lady, trying to sell fishes, each day. She sits all day long under the scorching heat of the Chennai city. And each day, she hopes to sell something. The quantity however, remains the same- morning and evening. Yet, she sits there, everyday. With the same hope of selling her fish. Does that mean, she is not living? No. Infact, she's the one who is most alive! She lives each day on a hope. She lives hoping. Her hope is her strength to live. Her pulse- her hope!

Sometimes, those faded pictures on the frames, tell us things. They had always been telling. But there was no one listening to it. Try listening.. There would never be any need to get defensive, the next time you confront the picture. There won't be any gaps!

Looking beyond the past is not about living in future. Past is not just memories. Past is a life. A life lead with a hope of a future. A hope that bore fruit and brought you here. And there are some clues out there- yet to be explored, in the past. Life is a treasure hunt- and to reach on to the treasure, the future needs to find those clues. The future, needs to look, beyond the past...

A REASON, TO CRY...

A year back, this day, I realized something. It was a realization that I could never forget. Time never plays fair...

It's an affair that knocks our doors every day of the year. People in agony. Dying anonymously- along with those thousand other nameless faces.. Acts of terrorism tearing apart families.. It is not uncommon. Humans born each day- humans taken away! It's a normal cycle of life.

Somewhere- along those lines- these humans begin to forget the fact that they are soon going to be taken away. The result of which is family. There are people who become a part of you. There are people, who smile for you.. grieve for you.

Time never plays fair. On another note, I don't think so. It happens. For it happens.

Still, I wonder at times! How easy it is for us to write things? "I felt sad","My heart was ripped apart..","Plunging into the depths of sorrow..". WORDS! And I am a person, who believes in the power of words..

Sometimes, there are things, that can never be justified by words. Truth, innocent questions of a child, the happiness of a mother holding her new born.. And there are other things too..

I have seen my family, crumbling at a loss- too heavy. A family losing its pillar of strength. A sister losing a brother, whom she held in hand once.. Seen him grow.. Make their father proud! Her tears don't justify her loss.

A tear is that which comes out of a self, only when the self is completely 'castaway'. I feel crippled- here I am sitting and staring at the television- hearing the turn of tables each and everyday- what could I do? what should I do? what can I do? NOTHING! It's a year- my mom cries almost every single day over her brother's death.. Our tears cannot justify his death.. Our tears can never justify our loss.. All that we now have,

is a reason to cry..

OLD MAN UNDER THE TAMARIND TREE

I danced to the tunes of the Kucha roads- the crowded bus that usually carried more people than it actually could; the people- vendors, farmers, teachers; and their goods- everything became a part of my life. Years of travel in the same bus, I had learned to be friendly with the broken seats and sweating people. I was a part of their lives, each day- and so, I was a part of their stories. But in my story, there was one man, whom everyone knew- and also, did not!

All day long, he used to sit beneath the tamarind tree. He was very old- some said he was over hundred and a few- over thousand! All I knew was- he was old- he wore clothes that were dirty and torn at odd places. He had an old shawl to wrap himself at night time. Sometimes, he was smoking, what they call- a Beedi. Most of the time- he only sat there- did nothing but stare hard at the sky.

I felt oddly pleased to see that man everyday. Just looking at him, made me smile- I felt that he was inspiring me in some way- I saw no purpose in looking at him- but I looked at him everyday, nevertheless. It gave me a satisfaction! And my liking for him, had what made him a part of my story.

Mausiji. That was how we called her. She was so loud that people at the bus, dreaded her sitting beside them. She sold flowers at the nearby town and that day, I played her host! Mausiji was full of questions. About my name, my family, my profession- and she was full of suggestions. She had her opinion on everything- from the colour of my shirt to the furniture in my house. She said that her generation really knew the way the world functioned. She knew everyone in the bus- and had opinions on them too.

"You see him? The one with the white cap- he sells milk. He had been trying to save all his income. But he has this wife who eats like a pig. Poor fellow! All his saving goes straight into her food! And that Kashiram? He gambles away everything! I always say…"

I switched myself off, mentally, when she came around to that. But suddenly, my attention was brought back when she said-

“See that old man under the tamarind tree”?

“Yes.. Do you know anything about him”?

"Of course. Don’t you know? He used to be a big man- very rich- a Zamindar(landlord). The whole village had belonged to him- but that is past! He’s lost everything. All that he’s got now is- that shawl. He sits there all day long, waiting for his son, who’d gone off, somewhere! They say, he was a very bad father- he’s repenting! I always say…”

Poor man. I wonder how he feels. It is really bad- to own everything and to see them go off your hands- yet, unable to forget the past- for everything always stays in front of your eyes!

All night, I was unable to take him off my mind. I tossed and turned in my bed- I felt sorry for him. The stranger, though he was- however, a part of my life.
Govind, the milkman- was always pleasant. When he smiled at people, they felt light and happy. I’d always liked him.

“… and our Sarpanch(village-chief) told us that he’s speak to the big officers. We’ll soon another bus”.

He had news about the village, about the town- about people.

“… they were telling me the other day that Prakash was arrested- did you know? They’ll soon arrest the old man under the tamarind tree too, I hope…”!

“What? Arrest the old man! Why”?

“Oh, don’t you know? He’s a bandit”?

I couldn’t accept the dear old man being a bandit. A Zamindar worked better with me, however. But, I certainly couldn’t help myself- being curious.

“He was a notorious bandit. Years before, he looted people and killed them, mercilessly. People were terrified. They say, he sits under that tree, all day long, guarding all his booties. No one dares go near him for he had laid a curse upon the tree. If anyone else, but him, goes near the tree, their nose would start to bleed and they’d die. Munshiji told..”

The old man was a bandit?! I couldn’t get myself to believe about the curse, but at least, it proved why he sat beneath the tree, always! I still couldn’t accept him being a bandit- so the information only increased my curiosity.

From that day, I stared looking at him more closely. I noticed that there was a mark on his cheek- a sort of scar left by a deep wound. I was beginning to believe Govind- and I was fascinated. The story of the old man was becoming more intriguing- each day.

It was around 8:00 pm. I was tired. I usually reached home by eight. I had had a busy day. The bus moved so slow. It made me think that I could walk faster than the bus. But I was tired. And all I could do was- to wait till I reached home.

Suddenly, there was a jerk and a noise. The bus had stopped. Break down. Some of us got down and pushed the bus to the nearby village. It was the old man’s village. But there was no old man beneath the tree! I felt strange to see the tree without the old man. It felt odd- vacant!

I joined the others, who were gathered at the nearby tea stall. I bought myself a cup of tea. The people were talking. But I couldn’t bring myself to listen to them- until I heard- “.. the old man under the tamarind tree, vanished..”

I turned around so fast that the man behind me, who was just speaking, spilled his tea all over himself! I apologized and enquired about the old man.

He said, “Don’t you know? He vanished”!

“What do you mean- vanished”?

“Vanished! He evaporated! Gone off to the Himalayas where he came from. He was a holy man- a Siddha- who knew the past, present and the future. He’d been under the tamarind tree- meditating, for hundreds of years; protecting us all. He’s gone back to the Himalayas to finish his penance. We’ve planned to build a temple for him, under the tamarind tree- where he’s left behind his spirit for the benefit of the villagers. The Sarpanch…”

So the old man was gone. And no one knew where- but he had left behind his memories- for everyone to remember and to share. For me, he’d always remain as the old man under the tamarind tree- a part of my life, my story.

WHAT DID I DO?

Dark. The night was as dark as the heart of a murderer. But I felt safe. Mother was beside. Her warmth protected me against just anything. All my anxieties wither away- just one touch of hers, does wonders to me. The quiet night, was only destined to be quiet for a while. But we were not supposed to know yet. I felt the eternal quiet- a night, so calm and peaceful- an assurance brought about due to the sense of another being present beside- one whom you could touch and trust.

I lay lost in thoughts. I couldn’t sleep. I was just too happy. Everybody had been so happy that day. The day I was born. Father said that he had not ever been happier- than the day I was born. I knew he had spoken the truth. His eyes had never lied to me. My mother had probably guessed that I was not sleeping. She had started to pat me… gently. How come mothers know that? I could never understand that.

It had been an unusually quiet night. So quiet, that I could almost hear my own thoughts. I turned in my bed. I could see father. I think that I had got the best father in the whole world. Mother had been complaining since a few days back about “difficult days ahead”. I never understood what she meant by that. But father! He had never complained- about anything. He had always made sure that we were happy. He said- “It’s a man’s shame that his women complain. I would never let my little princess cry”. And he was a man of his words.

There were noises. Distant noises- coming closer- slowly- then rapidly. And all of a sudden- it ceased to be a quiet night. There were cries everywhere. People ailing. Crying out in pain- agony. People angry. People, in rage. In panic, in despair. It was a moment in my life when I felt all the human emotions- simultaneously. What was the cause of this commotion? I wondered.

Suddenly, I felt myself being lifted up by such a force- that I was being pulled back onto the firm ground from the land in my dream. It was mother. I could see her crying. Why was she crying? Father was beside her. The look on his face… What was it? Could that be fear? No. But it was fear. A strange helplessness- despair, had crept into him. I had never seen him like that. He looked at me. I tried to smile. But I couldn’t. I felt that my doubtful, uncertain glance at him had only weakened him. We were running. Like fugitives. Like animals being hunted. But why?

I saw people on the road. Some were holding up torches. The flames from the torches were not as bright as their eyes that shone with mad pleasure. Some of them had swords. Some- knives, spears. They were beating and killing everyone. I could recognize some of the people who were running along with us. Those were the people, who were being killed- tortured. We ran faster and faster. The noise around was unbearable. May be, we were dead. And we were in hell… What else could it be?

Suddenly, I had fallen off my mother’s clutches. And before I could realize what was happening, my mother had ceased to run. In fact, she had ceased to move, talk or cry. She was not… was she? Where is father? I looked around. Some of the men with swords were holding him. I started running towards him. He looked at me, and when he fell down, he was still looking at me. The men with swords were coming closer, towards me. I was not running. I was not crying. They were standing, now, facing me. Judging me. The noise was dying down. I could now see, only their eyes staring into mine. I heard myself say, “What did I do”? And all I could hear was, the echo of silence…

DIYA

The swing was swinging. Only, no one was on it. It was as though an invisible being was the master of the swing. The sight of it- it gave an odd pleasure. The swing was doing what it was suppose to do. An order in things that exist- for the sake of existing. This is how it should be. This is the way I like them, to be.

***

Some time back, I met a friend. He was a good man. But he let things change in his life. Disrupted the order of nature. And his life was never the same again. He was repenting. I felt always happy to hear people say that. Approve of my ideas. It feels good to see people share your belief. Say ‘you were right’.

***

That is how my life is. The way it should be. Not an inch on this side of the life. Not one inch on the other. Just there. Where it should be. Where it would stay safe. Uncomplicated. Traditional. Natural.

***

In my life, there was no place for madness. The way I am, is good. I saw someone on TV the other day, who said something like- “.. chaos happens when an unstoppable object meets an immovable one..” That is exactly what I hate. I am immovable. And I don’t like unstoppable objects.

***

I found this girl near the Jogger’s Park gateway. About twelve. She came unto my waist. Covered in rags. She was unconscious. I took her to the hospital. The sight of her, back at that moment- was disturbing. It was as though- it reflected the poverty of the entire world put together. I couldn’t help it. It was not in my system.

***

She stayed with me. Always. I had to teach her to talk, eat, walk properly. There was this sense of another being beside you- constantly. I was trying to get used to it. Meanwhile, she gave me a name. ‘Dada’. I didn’t know, what that meant. But I thought, I should probably give her a name too. I asked her, what her favorite name was. ‘Diya’. She became that.

Diya was an unstoppable object. She spread throughout. Like water, like fire, like life. The extent to which she had influenced my living- I had no time to think about it. There used to be a bird inside me- that usually popped to remind me of time. But it doesn’t do so anymore. It was as though, it had gone away from me. I was not myself without it. The bird was free. And I am never. Or so, I thought.

***

She liked to swing. I bought her one. I could see her. Full of life, whenever she was swinging. It was a pleasure to see that. It brought me something that I had never experienced before. Happiness? Sorrow? Elation? Depression? I don’t know. But whatever that was, I felt good. Like never before. I felt like I was living to see her swing. But one is suppose to live for oneself. Then how is that, that I’ve come to like this feeling. This unconditional love for the girl in rags, who had no name. ‘Diya’?

***

Something was not well. I could feel it. I was trapped between her world and mine. And this was not alright. When my one feet was in my world, the other was in hers. This was not me. I was never like that. I was beginning to experience traces of chaos. I was beginning to see nature being man-handled. When you’ve carried a belief for this long, it always felt hard to see it crumble. I had never seen me the way I was now. I was beginning to sense danger.

She had made a drawing. She just loved colours. I always found her attracted to colours. I liked black. And white, at times. But she liked all the colours. The brighter the better. The drawing was full of colours. Just like her. But I never liked colours. And she was making me like what I did not like. I hated her for it. But I loved her for it. This was the beginning of chaos. I was crumbling the drawing. I was crumbling her smile. I could not stop myself. I was torn between who I was and who I am. I could see tears in her eyes. I felt tears too. But I felt like they were coming from one of my eyes. She was trying to tell me something. I could not hear what that was. I was beginning to collapse. I? I didn’t know, who I was.

***

The swing was swinging. Only, no one was on it. It was as though an invisible being was the master of the swing. The sight of it- it gave an odd pleasure. The swing was doing what it was suppose to do. An order in things that exist- for the sake of existing. This is how it should be. This is the way I like them, to be. The swing was swinging. But there was no one on it! And why did I feel happy about it? She was not present on it anymore. I was no longer ‘Dada’. I was I. I should feel happy about it! But why was I not feeling so?

***

May be this was why people liked to change the way things should be. For the fleeting moment of happiness that they get to experience. To sense their heart getting heavy and light all at once. I now knew, why they liked it. It was a part of nature. It was a part of the order too. One can never evade it. One has to live with it. Chaos completes natures’ orders. It completes the life with nature. But I had lost my chaos. My sense of being complete. And I need to be complete. I needed to find Diya. I would go looking for her. I would like colours. All of them. I would be ‘Dada’ forever. That was who I am. Who I should be. That was what nature had planned for me. I would bring back the order in my life. I would complete my life. I would bring back, my Diya…

******

Goddess of Sin

For more, the heart and the senses yearn. Deprived of pleasures, a million around. For more, it screams in agony. The scream becomes the pleasure then. Forever a necessity- yet reduced to some cheap luxury- it stays up there. Awaiting for the being to reach it. Taste it. Feel it. It stays up there, untouched and welcoming. Its virgin surface spilling purity all around. Purging moral from air- the minds, vacuum from the sense of penance. Pleasure, they call it. An omen of sin.

Strange are the ways, the mind of a human works. Somewhere inside, a clock ticks- a constant reminder of being human. The animal within, put to sleep. A sleep, when awoken- seeks the pleasure. Or tries to seek. What is pleasure? It wonders. It was, after all, created by the same Creator. A kin to hope- brother to grief; sister to happiness and a cousin to pain! Why then these barriers? Why this cage? A desire to melt away the irons of moral- creeps in the animal and gives it the strength. Strength so strong, stronger than mind, itself! Pleasure- the magnet, emerges out- winner!

Pleasure- lies in things forbidden. Pleasure lay within guilt. Guilt, a proof of pleasure, experienced. Pleasure, felt. Enjoyed. Guilt is- the child. Why shun the child? What sin has the child committed- to be left abandoned? Denied? Pleasure becomes, the wronged lady. Doomed to bear, the burden of guilt. What was my sin? Pleasure wonders. Is it crime to be the way I was created? Is it my fault that the animal is awake? There could never be, an answer- ever! Guilt is guiltless- and it is only fair, to accept it.

Branded- the omen of sin; left to rot deep within the layers of thoughts. Thoughts of so-called God-fearing souls. Hypocrites, who fail to accept creation, as it is. Fail to see, the beauty of it. Refuse to embrace the truth. But deep inside- the animal lives- killing the pleasure- or trying to do so. Death was something, that could never reach pleasure. For the urge to kill becomes the child of pleasure! And so, the pleasure lives- doomed to live a half life. Neither out, nor in. Neither felt nor denied. A fate so cruel- waiting to be changed. Waiting for the doors within, to be opened. Waiting to emerge out as not an omen, but a Goddess, of sin!

DIL SE...

00:01 am, 12th May 2009

The bus was gliding through the silhouette of hills and trees. A white ray of light from the moon- highlighting the roads ahead- the moon followed me, wherever I went. ‘E-Ajnabi’ from ‘Dil Se’, filled my heart with joy of unknown happiness while the moon filled my eyes with dreams. I like dreams. The song always made me dream. But today, it was special.

I was in the ‘middle of nowhere’- with only the moon above me, and ‘E-Ajnabi’, inside me. I didn’t remember, what happened the day before. Not that I should. Not that I would. And I didn’t care about what lay ahead. The moon was there, as ever and so would be- ‘E-Ajnabi’. So many things, flashed through my mind. Yes. I would be voting for the first time in my life! I would be home, in few hours time. But now, I was- in the ‘middle of nowhere’- with the moon and ‘E-Ajnabi’.

‘Ghost of the smile’ that I had smiled, earlier that day, had stayed back. I didn’t want that to leave me. I needed all the happiness that I could get- to carry along- into the day ahead. It had already become, my best birthday, ever with 'the ghost of my smile’ aftermath my birthday celebrations, the moon, the place somewhere at the ‘middle of nowhere’ and ‘E-Ajnabi’…

THE TUNNEL

There is a tunnel that has no exits. The exit, it has, but cannot be seen. The tunnel has no light, no windows- to let its travelers have a peep. What lies beyond is not for the eyes of the traveler. And when one indeed sees what is beyond, can never travel again. Yet, every traveler tries to guess- the sight beyond the tunnel, dark. Most keep guessing, while a few claim to know. A few others just don’t bother, and a handful- well, they might actually know! The tunnel has a definite structure- a kind of maze. It has its sources and a destination. The travelers travel together- sometimes alone- but most of the times, together.

The tunnel has in hold, many surprises for its travelers. And each traveler, takes in these surprises in different ways. The tunnel keeps a track of all its travelers; judges them by the way they take its surprises. A traveler must never displease the tunnel. For the tunnel, always expects its travelers to like its surprises. This tunnel also has a strange sense of humour. Sometimes, the tunnel starts playing games with its travelers. The travelers must play along. For if they don’t, they won’t be able to move on! They get trapped. The could neither turn back, nor move ahead. Wicked, though it may sound, it is, but a part of the path that the traveler has to take, through the tunnel. The tunnel, knows.

How long is this tunnel? That is subjective. How big is the tunnel? No one knows. For the travelers never have known that they are in a tunnel. The darkness inside the tunnels has prevented the travelers from knowing the truth about their path. Some of these travelers have tried to light the lamps. But these lamps failed to help them know the truth. Instead showed them lies which took them ahead- towards their exit. While many other travelers, have ceased to find the truth. They prefer to take in the surprises, not to displease the tunnels- and move ahead on their journey- safely. Safely? Their ignorance is the source of their safety. And this ignorance is their bliss. Is this what the tunnel wants? Its travelers cease to try and find the truth? No. It wants the travelers to try. For only then, it could show them lies!

Through the darkness and through the lies, as the traveler journeys along, the tunnel unleashes its final surprise! The dark humour of the tunnel, never ceases to test its travelers. A few travelers, who’d traveled enough, know all about this surprise. The tunnel is not “entertained”. Yet, a few others are completely taken aback! And the tunnel, celebrates! For, the tunnel is particularly proud of this surprise. Some of the travelers, try to fool the tunnel. The tunnel humours them. It lets them believe that it is being fooled. And throws in this surprise, so suddenly, that they never get the chance to even realize that they were the ones that were fooled! The mysterious, yet the most precious surprises of all- exit. This surprise, puts and end to the games of the tunnel. It helps the traveler, realize the truth, see the light. And this surprise, answers the travelers. Strange is this tunnel- the dark, cruel; yet great, merciful, is this tunnel, called- Time!

THANK YOU, ALL...

Hey all..

Your comments for my previous post, LOST, really helped me out. But the reason for my deleting the post- I just thought it made my blog depressing.. But your comments shall always be cherished!

Once again.. Thank you all...

LOVE- LOST & FOUND

[Based on facts.. I thank the unknown traveler...]

A slit. And I’d break free. I’d float into a world where there’d be no suffering. A world, free from misery, guilt and treachery. A world, where I can be myself, and live for myself. A world, from which I need never return. A world which would be mine.

I took the knife into my hands. I positioned it over my left wrist. The knife was shining- smooth and sharp. Just the way it should be. The setting sun shone its blood red rays over the knife. And the knife- looked jubilant.

I could see myself in that knife. No. It wasn’t me. My eyes were never bloodshot. This was someone alien. No. And I put the knife down. I turned around. I could now face the mirror. I could see a stranger.

A stranger- who’d lost his smile. A stranger- who cried like a child; who hated himself for what he’d become. A stranger- who was in me; whom I’d never invited in me.

Her eyes. It grew large every time I surprised her. Oh! She laughed like a baby! A laughter- that had no sleight, no grudge. It seemed, as though she grew younger, each day.

And one day, when she held my hands, I looked into her eyes. There was no one but she and I. No world, no universe. But she and I. I spoke. Only she would hear it. I smiled. Only she would see it. I loved. Only she would feel it.

But when she started to speak; the stranger crept in. For I was incapable of hearing what she said. And she would never love this stranger if she’d never loved me. No. It was this stranger, whom she’ll never love. Not me. She’d love me. She has to love me. But the stranger wouldn’t leave me. So, I’d kill him. I returned back to the knife.

The knife was back- over my left wrist. I heard a cry. Somewhere, on the road. It made me pause, for a moment. It delayed my journey.

I saw a baby. Round the corner- left out to rot. The stranger, lifted the baby off the trash. The baby stopped crying. His eyes grew large. He looked surprised; amazed at his own luck! The stranger was ebbing away. It was now my eyes which looked into the baby’s. The baby smiled. A smile, so pristine; sans sleight, sans grudge. His nimble fingers, gripped my shirt. And- my smile, returned…

"JAI HO.."

“Beauty is Truth
Truth Beauty
That is all
Ye know on Earth
And all ye need to know..” - Keats

A morning of Joy! Eyes brimming with tears of happiness, as I receive the call from my dad, and see people jumping with joy and bliss all at once, in the news channels. Messages keep coming in from friends to whom I’d promised a treat- asking me to decide the time and venue! I shout, I whistle, I jump- I feel like I should be out there with people, bursting crackers..

My heart, heavy and light all at once- I am Living!

Silence is the best form of music. He lives with it. Music, best illustrates Truth. His persona speaks loads of it! And as He says to the world “Ella pugazhum Iraivanukke..”
I can only Pray- “Jai Ho, Rahman.. Jai Ho..”!

LETTERS FROM MAWLEY...

As promised, I have here, a mail that my father sent me today, 20th feb, 2009.

Sub: The perfect alibi.-for non-performance

Our External Affairs Minister Pranab Mukherji is never tired of asking Pakistan to hand over the terror –fugitives. Well, the most pertinent question in this context is, what will you do with them? For what the cognoscenti of the country know, they will be kept in fortified bungalows, with star-style living facilities; Crores of rupees will be spent endlessly, for their upkeep-with special hospitalization for their further rest and recuperation, from time to time; Lawyers from both the countries and elsewhere, would make a big kill…the cases would be heard and re-heard by different judges, who will keep retiring, yielding place to the new ones, who will hear and re-hear the cases.
.ad nauseam…Meantime, 20-25 years would roll by; the “accused fugitives” would celebrate their sons’/daughters’ weddings, in royal style; all the political bigwigs and the Bollywood celebrities would attend the grand party-never missing the attendant photo-ops.. the media will get sufficient material to cover such “ important” functions , for a few issues, each time;

You think, I am being too pessimistic? In the parliament attack case, ( 2001 ) our Supreme Court handed down the final judgment, convicting Afzal Guru, with death sentence; what are we doing about this ?Our Home Minister says ( the Hindu dt 1st. Jan.2009) “ the Home Ministry was examining the case “ ( sic ) What is there to examine? How long will you keep ‘examining’ the case? Then, how did the Govt. present the case in the various courts and finally in the Supreme Court? And, on what basis the Supreme Court passed the final verdict?

This is only an illustrative case; many such convicts similarly “sentenced” ( e.g.) in the Rajiv Gandhi assassination case , the fellow who killed and then roasted his wife’s corpse in the Tandoori oven ) are enjoying themselves enviable govt. hospitality…( some of them may even be at large, leaving their proxy in the lock-up..! don’t be surprised at all … money can buy anything … )

While courts hand down their final judgment, courts also mention some time limit for appeal; does it not mean that once the time for appeal expires, the sentence must be executed? Is there no time limit for execution of sentences passed by the courts? To a simple mind, it appears, non-execution of court sentences after the lapse of whatever period, must by itself constitute a “Contempt of court”..

Is it good law that permits a ‘convict’ to simply present a petition to the President/Governor and thereby naively convert the Death sentence into a life-sentence?

The point that I want to emphasize is that in this country ( my dear Motherland ) the police, judicial and administrative machinery have completely de-railed…and I see no light at end of the tunnel…Very sad indeed…

Yours truly,
Mawley.

THE TEST

(When Karthik told me sometime back about the 55fiction fad, I didn't realize what he meant by that. But I happened to come across a few which inspired me to try my hand at it.. )

“… this is an insult! Say no to that impertinent girl”!
“Absolutely. What does she think of herself! HIV test before marriage?? How embarrassing”!
“.. But ma, there’s nothing wrong with it. I’ve already taken it. And would get the report any minute now”..
(Door bell)
They wait, as Prateek reads the report.
“So”?
“Positive….”!

THE MARBLE GAME

The blanket was torn at really odd places. Shantama could never let Tipu sleep with that blanket on especially during the morning hours, when the street is all crowded! Tipu wished he were Mani- Mittoo's dog- it slept all day long. No one dared go near Mani.

Tipu's morning was vapid and disgusting. Shantama had been quarrelling with Kamla mausi all morning. Why? Tipu never cared. They were always quarrelling. The asbestos sheet above was broken. So was the cot. Tipu stepped out of the house.

Mangoo and his asinine crony- Bhatti, were walking towards him. Tipu was in no mood to fight. They had had a fair deal, the day before. Tipu had won- and so he got Mangoo's four marbles. End of the story. But Mangoo was not happy. Besides, Mangoo was twelve, while Tipu, only nine.

"Give me back, my marbles"- Mangoo had a bossy tone. But Tipu was not scared. "They are mine, now. I won them", he said- a tone so true and as pure as truth, itself. Mangoo pushed him down while Bhatti caught hold of his hands, tight, Mangoo took out the four marbles Tipu had kept in his trouser pocket and spoke thus- "They are mine . And will always be mine. Get your own marbles if you wish to play today. Else, forget the game.." . He kicked Tipu hard on his ribs, and left along with Bhatti.

"..only ten rupees, ma. I need to buy marbles. If I don't have marbles, I can never play the game again with Sukhi or Hari and all those other big boys out there ma. Mangoo took all my marbles..". Shantama was worried. She hardly had any money to get rice for the dinner. But she could never be happy unless Tipu was happy. She said, "I'll ask 'Baiji'. If she could get me, I'll get you marbles".

Shantama- a single working parent. She was a house maid. She was not a very good one too. People who let her work, let her do it for they only pitied her. She was weak and always sick. But a very sweet woman. Soft, and one who can be trusted. "Baiji" - as Shantama called her, was the only person, whom Shantama could depend on. Thanks to " Baiji", Tipu attends the local school. “Baiji” was her only hope.

"Baiji" had left to Shirdi. And Shantama could not go anywhere else. Tipu was heart broken. Today's game was the most important one. It would change his life. If he wins today, he would get twenty one marbles- he'd be rich… RICH… And then, he'd be the leader. And Mangoo won’t be able to do anything about it.

Tipu could do nothing. The sun was in high spirits. The road seemed everlasting. Tipu could feel the void inside his heart. He was vexed. He cursed Mangoo. He cursed "Baiji". They had ruined his life. But suddenly, he saw something on the road. A piece of paper. An important piece of paper. Money- an end to all his miseries! Ten rupees!

Tipu was filled with life. All his hunger, anger and helplessness, vanished. Mamaji's shop was just around the corner. Full of life, he held one hand high up-in the air, a ten rupees note, tuck safely inside his fist, he ran. He ran past the quarrelling women, hungry children, past the lame beggar, toiling labourers. Finally, when he reached Mamaji's shop, he was sweating- it seemed as though he had bathed in sweat!

"Mamaji, four marbles.."

Mamaji was busy attending other customers. He took no notice of the panting Tipu.

"MAMAJI, FOUR MARBLES..."

Mamaji turned. He saw a shirtless little boy, drenched in sweat, a ten rupees note, clasped tight in his fist, dirty feet, dry hair, bright sparkling eyes.

"Who gave you the money?" Mamaji demanded.

"I found it", came the reply.

Mamaji seized the money and shouted, in anger and disgust-

"You thieving little brat! Get lost.. Never set foot inside my shop, again. For I would kill you if you do. Get lost.."

Tipu stood there, transfixed, seeing his dreams land safely into Mamaji's cash box..

U'R ATTENTION PLEASE...

So many things happened in such less time, that I hardly have time to turn back and see where I was, a few months from today! Busy? Nope. Can't exactly say what that was! Anyway, friends, I'm back!

So many awards! Thank you, Karthik, Karthik. R, rampantheart, for the awards! :)

An announcement- no, there's something that I would like to share with you all. My father, keeps writing to me. About this, that and everything. Recently, I had been to a book store, where I found this book- Letters from a father to a daughter- that is, Nehru's letters to Indira Gandhi. This inspired me.

I am planning to post this series- "Letters from Mawley". Not on a regular basis, but whenever I should get a letter from him, I would post them on my blog. My dad is happy about the whole plan. I'd been pestering him to start a blog of his own. But he could never find the time! So, this seemed perfect. Hope you'd like it too!

Would be back soon, with a new post! Until then...

NEW DAY...

The clouds keep floating- where they go- no one would ever know. And one would never see the same cloud, again. Time. The changing times, bring along the future. The sea has depths- no one knows what it holds in it. Pearls, coral- sharks!

Mirror has no memories. Reflections do. Looking back, it may think of smiles and tears- about how different they are from how they were. The past had no future. While the present is full of them. Tomorrow is no today. And today is no yesterday.

A shadow is trapped- somewhere between somewhere and nowhere. There is no darkness in that untrodden land of mysteries. There is no place to hide. The light rules the land. There is blindness, all around- caused by the light.

Today- is not tomorrow.. Today- is never tomorrow..