Soul Splinters

Moving...to http://thotjotted.wordpress.com

2009-07-21T20:55:00.003-06:00

This blog has been a great friend, but changes are inevitable... For those of my readers who have been visiting this site, please visit my new blog at http://thotjotted.wordpress.com . Hopefully it would be updated more often than this has been of late!

Short sketch - Revenge

2009-04-11T21:08:00.002-06:00

The Goddess laughed. Her eyes were amused and grim with satisfaction. She gazed upon her nemesis. A strange aura emanated from her, an impenetrable white shield of an inner secret of power.

"Your quest for revenge upon me has destroyed you more completely than any revenge I could have chosen. I do not need to defeat you, demon. I am beyond your power. My bondage was my own choice, as is my freedom. You deluded yourself into thinking that you chained me, for you have chained nothing but yourself. I have always been free.

Your murky claws can reach me, but they cannot touch me. Your black soul cannot sully my aura. The sacred touch of Life has healed the scars of your attack, and lighted in me the all consuming fire of passion. I revel in Life; I revel in my Beauty, I revel in the power of my Being. I revel in the knowledge that my revenge is complete because you are now my slave. And you do not know.

You sought to bind a Goddess to you with mortal bonds. You succeeded only in chaining yourself to a Power you can never conquer. This is true Justice – that you must suffer what you sought to inflict upon me”

She laughed again and turned away. The demon watched her with red rimmed eyes, still believing that he held the chain. As she walked, the chain dragged him with her, but he could not hold her back. He who had thought to master was the one enslaved.

The mountains and the heavens echoed her laughter.

The Wedding Gift

2008-02-01T09:19:00.000-07:00

Nirmala glanced at the image of the blushing bride in the mirror, draped in the traditional creme and gold saree, her hair adorned with fragrant jasmine flowers. It seemed to her that her Ammama was sitting in the corner and nodding and smiling in delight. In all her life, she had never loved anyone as she loved Ammama—with her gentle smile and silvery white hair, her inexhaustible store of stories and her quiet dignity, and the strength that shone out even in her quiet demeanor. It had been four years since Ammama died—how she would have loved to see her Nimmikutti’s wedding!

She smiled to herself as she thought of her last conversation with her fiancé. Sashi had been puzzled, but had acquiesced when she had said that the first thing they both would do after the marriage would be to plant a banyan tree sapling.

“Hmm? Are you a tree-lover or an environmentalist or something?”

“No. It is just something that--that I really want.”

“A banyan tree - sapling?”

“Yes”

“Will you tell me why?”

“I will tell you – sometime. Not now.”

She could still remember the night before they had sold the old house, how Ammama had sat late into the night, looking at the old banyan tree in the courtyard.

“Nimmikutti, do you know I planted that sapling? Your grandfather and I planted it on the day we got married. My father had lost everything to his creditors by then; that was all he could give us as a wedding gift. It was a sapling that he had got from the old tree in our ancestral house before it had been sold and he gave it to me with tears in his eyes. He said to me –“Govind is a good man. You both will be happy together. This is all I can give you, my daughter; all that I could salvage from the past. I have been a failure as a father, I have lost everything; but this sapling has the blessings of all your ancestors, it is the child of a tree that has seen the origins of a once-great family. Build again what I have destroyed, daughter. Build a new life…God bless you my child, may you always be happy.’

When I came here, it was just a little make-shift hut. But your grandfather and I planted the sapling that evening and we built a little fence around it. Then, in the twilight, he smiled at the sight of me, in my wedding saree, my hands all muddy and streaks on my face. And we both laughed our first laugh together.”

Nirmala remembered her Ammama smiling, her eyes bright with the memory of that shared laughter.

“That tree was like the symbol of our love. At first it was delicate, needing a lot of attention; I had to water it daily, add the manure, shoo away the cows that strayed in the yard. I had to watch over it, take care of it. And somehow, in my mind, it became synonymous with our love.

Isn’t the beginning of love a lot like that? Moods swaying like the sapling swayed in the breeze… I would blush when he smiled at me, weep when he frowned, feel depressed if he simply pointed out something I should have done, thinking that I am worthless, feel overjoyed if he bought me a flower. He too was like that at first, he was constantly trying to impress me with gifts or something he did…but he was more mature than I was and grew out of it quite soon. Then I thought he had lost interest in me and I became insecure. I would make a fuss if he so much as mentioned another girl or woman, and he would look at me quietly, puzzled. Sometimes, it was the other way. If I stayed in the marketplace too long, or spoke of anyone else highly, he would get upset. But your grandfather was a good man, and he never let his failings become passions. And slowly I recognized his love in the silence and the quiet thoughtfulness and the consideration he never failed to show for me. Through the years, once or twice, I thought the sapling would fall in the heavy rains and the storm and once or twice, I doubted if I was with the right person. The day he came home and fought with me after having a few drinks with his friends, I was reminded of all that my father had been, and I was distraught, thinking that mine would be the same fate as that of my mother. But it was a momentary weakness, and he never repeated it, when he realized how much it hurt me.

Slowly the sapling took deeper root and started to grow, and slowly our trust in each other grew. The sapling did not require constant care and attention; it no longer needed the fence to protect it or me to shoo away the cows and goats. And we became closer and closer; we did not need constant proofs and reassurances for our love. Every obstacle did not scare us; every problem did not weigh us down: we began to grow in love. Then your father came along, and from the sprightly young banyan tree there came long rope-like roots for him to swing by… It was around that tree’s shade that your father took his first steps, and it was climbing on that that he became so energetic and agile.

And slowly we also became better-off, the hut became a house, and the roots of the tree and the foundation of the house were the same…in my mind. It felt as if each time our family had a crisis, I would see the impact on the tree, and each time the tree weakened, there was something happening in our life. Perhaps it was superstition… but I felt that it had become intertwined with our souls…The night that I had my third child, there was a terrible storm and I heard a loud noise outside…a huge branch had broken off and fallen to the ground. I had a deep sense of foreboding in my heart… and in the morning, they told me that the baby was stillborn...”

Ammama had sighed deeply and ran her hand over Nimmi’s head gently.

“You were named after that baby girl, Nimmikutti. ‘Nirmala’ was the name I had thought for that baby if it was a girl. When your mother put you in my arms for the first time, I felt like God had given her back to me.”

She looked at the tree again and smiled. “Do you know that when you came here as a child, you would always climb that tree? You would sit on the branches and refuse to come down until your grandfather brought you the mangoes from his store. And he always kept the best mangoes for his Nimmimol.

Your grandfather passed away six years ago, but even now when I sit under that tree I feel him near. I tried very hard to convince your father and uncles not to sell this house, but … well, they are right too; I am alone here and they are worried that there is no one to take care of me. And I am happy we are selling it to Revathy and Sankaran—they are good people and they will take care of the house and the lands… and the tree.” And Ammama had gone out in the night to sit under the tree a long while, reliving the years gone by.

Nirmala smiled again to herself looking at the little sapling that stood ready for planting in her room and remembered how she had got it.

“What do you mean you want to go to the village? There are a thousand things to be done before the wedding! We don’t have time to go now.” Her mother had been aghast.

“I will go alone, Amma”

“Alone? A bride-to-be travelling alone? It’s unheard of! You can’t go anywhere this week!”

“Amma, I have to go. For Ammama. For myself.”

Her mother had had no answer to that. She had frowned and then she had gone to the inner chamber and brought out the wedding saree and the rings.

“I will come with you. I wanted to get these blessed at the Kshetram”

“Amma… I love you…”

Her little pilgrimage had been to her Ammama’s home, to the old house where Revathichechi now lived. In her heart she had felt that she wanted her Ammama’s blessings to start a new life, and that her Ammama would be there under the tree, waiting for her. They had gone to the Kshetram and then to the house and Revathichechi had been overjoyed to have them stay there. And in the evening, she had gone out to the courtyard and sat under the tree and looked up at the bright stars.

“Ammama… it’s my marriage on Saturday. I just wanted to be here with you before that. I wish you had been here, Ammama. I miss you a lot.”

“I am always with you, my child”

Nimmi had started. That had not been her imagination.

“Ammama… are you there?”

“Come back here tomorrow morning.” She had felt the thought in her heart rather than heard it.
The next morning, as they got ready to leave, Nimmi had gone out into the courtyard again and found a sapling growing at the spot where she had sat the night before. She had gently disentangled the roots and wrapped the sapling in some damp cloth and packed it to take back with her.

“What is that?” her mother had asked.

“My wedding gift. From Ammama” she had replied.

The Storyteller

2007-12-10T07:31:00.000-07:00

The magic would begin every evening.

Every evening he would transport me into a world of monsters and magicians and princesses and genies. He would paint the brilliant colors of fantasy, bringing the magic alive with his words, his expressions, his unique narration. He would build the suspense until my bedtime and leave it hanging , so that I spent the day impatiently awaiting the evening to hear the next part of the story. And he never disappointed me. Every night I dreamt of those magical characters in his stories that were so alive and so vivid, every day I wondered what would happen next. I did not realise then that he was teaching me much through his stories, I saw only the colors, not the messages he had weaved into them.

Those are the most brilliant memories of my childhood: the monsters and the princes of those stories more real in my memory than the events of those days. My brother was gifted: his words had magic, not just in bringing images to life, but in sharing, in caring, in bringing laughter and warmth into people's lives.

As I grew up, those story nights passed, and he showed me other worlds and ideas. He taught me the fascination of palmistry, he shared my interest in books, music, electronic gadgets and computers. He listened and advised me as I stepped into my adolescent days; I admired him with all the intensity of a shy, awkward teenager for a confident, popular and beloved brother. I thought that there was nothing and no one he could not win over: he could speak to a beggar or a prince with equal ease. And he did !

My brother taught me about courage, love, sacrifice, relationships: through his stories, through his life. He taught me about how to live life with laughter , no matter how difficult the circumstances. He taught me what it means to win, what it means to care. He taught me how to live.

And now he is gone.

I can cry out against the injustice of a cruelly interrupted life, I can despair, I can weep: but that would have broken every lesson that I learnt from my favourite brother. I can only remember what he told me when I spoke to him last--"I am always a winner!"

"Yes you are", I want to tell him. Because he is still with me, with each one of the us he touched with his special magic. With laughter, with happiness. In every story I tell, he will be my storyteller.

But I know he knows.

Random Thoughts - Choices

2007-10-11T18:15:00.000-06:00

I keep wanting to tell my friends—Think about the choices you are making. Realize what they are. Understand the implications. Accept all the possible consequences. There are no second chances in life. There are but a few in relationships: and even if you get them, most relationships don’t remain the same. Small things matter. Invisible things matter. You are responsible for all your choices, intentional and unintentional. No one can rescue you from the consequences of ones you make, just because you did not do it intentionally.

Life has taught me that it is easier to say “I don’t care” than to live it. If you choose to say that and later find that you do care, a long way down the “don’t care” path, the way gets rather lonely. Life extends long beyond youth. And believe me, it’s difficult to not care later about some things that are easy to ignore in the spirit of youth. Sometimes, the inexperience and immaturity that makes you say “I don’t care” is forgiven, but often it is not. Sometimes the delicate flowers you crush in your mad rush do bloom again, but often they don't. Don’t look back and wish it had been different. The answer would only be that you should have thought of it earlier. Think ahead. And understand the delicacy, the complexity, the subtlety of human relationships and what they are based on. It takes just a harsh word, an angry look, a selfish thought to crack its foundation. If you think that they are not worth it because of their delicacy : well… all I can say is, I hope you never have to change that belief. I have had to. And I have learnt—that the most delicate of bonds are the ones that are truly worth the effort to keep and save.

It’s always a “kachcha daaga” … a delicate thread that holds people together. I keep wanting to tell my friends… Look. Think. See. Understand. You are making choices every moment. Be aware of them. They are building your future. Now.

Poem -- KALI*

2007-07-29T00:45:00.000-06:00

You have misjudged me.

You have glimpsed only the depth of a woman’s love.
You have not fathomed the vehemence of her contempt
when that love is thwarted by a betrayal that shames infidelity.

You have felt only the intensity of a woman’s faith.
You have not comprehended the potency of her scorn
when that faith is shattered by the reality of a treachery more appalling than mere falsehood.

You have sensed only the warmth of a woman’s tenderness.
You have not known the eternal ice of her indifference
when that tenderness is subjected to mockery and requited by a sham, a pale reflection of her love.

You have known only the sweet passion of a woman’s innocence.
You have not been scorched by her soul set ablaze by a holocaust of pain,
when she has cremated all the dreams of her innocence.

You have interpreted a woman’s gentleness as her weakness,
her unwillingness to cause pain as her inability to defend herself.
You have not gauged the power of her endurance, or the strength of her conviction.

Be not so deceived.

A Goddess is born from the depths of a woman’s heart,
hallowed by the ardor of her love,
or baptized by the depth of her anguish:

A Fury with power to which man has no equal.

Challenge not that Goddess; test not her Wrath.
It shall consume you.
She has no mercy.

I shall not forgive.

*Kali--The Goddess of destruction in Indian Mythology.

Random Thoughts -- Nostalgia

2007-07-07T01:34:00.000-06:00

It’s not events that make a memory special. I remember the day I achieved something or lost something, but it does not bring to my heart the bitter-sweet pang of nostalgia. It is the ordinary days I remember, the secrets shared under the tree near the chapel, the long walks around the school ground with my best friend at school, talking about just everything; stargazing, counting shooting stars, and sharing so much without really talking, with a friend, lying on the wide parapet of our hostel terrace, sitting with my dad late into the night after my mom had slept, talking about whatever happened in the day.

And even of days special, the moments we remember are not the ones we expect to remember… I remember going with my brother for a movie for the first time: I don’t remember the movie or who acted in it; I remember the moment where he protectively put his hand around me on the way, as if he were my elder brother rather than my younger. The day I was out with a friend, I saw a great many interesting things, but I remember most the time we sat on the grass… and simply talked. Sometimes it is less that even that; a sentence, a word, a look, a smile, a gesture of caring, the whiff of a perfume, the aroma of a home cooked meal, the laughter, the teasing… The things I took for granted come back to me from the past, and I look at them and wonder why I never realized how precious they were. The most vivid of memories are of the most commonplace things, and it is then that I realize how much I had misjudged them.

We build these patterns and move on , and when we look back, we realize that the colors that we had thought would last have faded away, and yet the threads reveal the depth of the hues we had never noticed, the strength of the thin strands of gold and silver that we had not perceived before. When we look back, the pattern we see is not the one we expected to see.

But it is more beautiful than we could have ever expected.

Short sketch -- Disquietude

2007-07-03T14:56:00.000-06:00

The desperate beating of wings woke me.

It was past midnight, and I could hear the soft patter of the rain on the tiled roof. It was not raining very heavily; the chirping of crickets and the croaking of frogs were heavy upon the cool night breeze. Yet, jarring upon the soothing night melodies was the frantic fluttering of wings somewhere on the rooftop. Some bird was trapped somewhere.

I went around, trying to locate the sound, but there was no room for a bird to enter through the wooden bars upon the windows below. It was an old house; the attic was accessible only by a narrow staircase at the back of the house. I knew it had to be the attic, but it was dark, and I was no longer the young girl who used to clamber nimbly up the steep stairs. I hesitated. What would I be able to do anyway?

The sound was becoming feebler and more desperate. Somewhere within my heart, an ache had risen, as if the bird was trapped within me and the wings were beating in desperation against my heart. I sat on my bed, hugging my legs. Unaccountably, tears were prickling at my eyelids.

And then I heard the plaintive cry of a dove through the now faint flapping.

I sighed and went out again. I grabbed an umbrella and went towards the kitchen and the backdoor.

Electricity was an unpredictable guest those monsoon days. The wind and rains caused a disruption almost every night; it had been out from evening. I lit a kerosene lantern from the kitchen and unbarred the wooden doors. The cooing was also getting faint, so I unlocked the grate to the stairs at the back and climbed slowly up the stairs. I could hear the flapping a bit more clearly now. The mournful cry sounded like not one, but two birds. I stepped on to the terrace and tried to locate the source of the sound with the feeble light of the lantern.

Hanging limply from one of the wooden beams, a plastic bag somehow tangled on one of its legs and caught on some nail on the beam was a slate grey dove. Flying around it crying plaintively was another one, probably its mate. The bird was struggling feebly, but it looked like it had exhausted its strength. I took one of the poles that we usually use to pluck mangoes in the summer and tried to reach it. The mate, thinking that I was attacking the helpless bird, flew at me, fiercely attacking me. I managed to flap it away, and tried again. This time, the nail loosened, and with a sickening thud, the bird landed at my feet, shuddering with exhaustion and fear.

I gently disentangled the plastic bag which had somehow got tied to its foot so tightly that I could see that it had broken in the frantic effort it had made to escape. I was no expert in the handling of birds: I simply went back to the kitchen, got some water and some wheat in a couple of bowls and left it next to the bird. I could feel its heartbeat still, but only faintly; I had not much expectation of its survival, and only a little hope.

I went back to my room and lay down, but sleep had fled from my eyes that night. The incident had evoked some forgotten sense of desperation in my own heart. The bird had come to symbolize the dreams that I had tied down with such merciless practicality. A dream, like bird, is born to fly free, and bondage of any sort is alien to it. To bind or hold captive a bird or a dream is to kill it.

I went up the next day, and saw that the bird had succumbed to its struggle and exhaustion. I dug a small grave for it in my garden and buried it. And my heart was still. The struggle had ceased within, as without.

The other bird, its mate, moped around the house for a few days, perhaps mourning its lost love . I did not see it after that.

Poem -- Aspiration

2007-05-06T11:36:00.000-06:00

I want to be that gull—
      The storm and the sunset
      Behind me;
      Riding the wind
      Towards the horizon…
I want to be that gull;
      Unperturbed,
      Graceful,
      Serene,
      Strong…
I want to be that gull
      That a sailor spies,
      And takes heart,
      Pressing towards home,
      Lost in the storm…
I want to be that gull:
      A fighter,
      A symbol,
      A vision,
      A message.
I want to be that gull.

Random Thoughts --Fuzzy Logic

2007-04-26T16:59:00.000-06:00

I do not like "Fuzzy Logic" in real life.

"Fuzzy logic" , defined in the terms of Artificial Intelligence Theory , allows subjects to belong to "Fuzzy sets". Which means that if the glass is half-empty or half-full, the glass is member of two groups which are actually contradictory -- "not empty" as well as "not full"

Which is all very well in theory.

What do you do with people who live in fuzzy logic? For people who don't answer a question with a simple "yes" or "no", but with a sort of answer that could be either -- or nothing connected to the matter at hand?

"Would you like to join us for lunch ?"

"Actually, I have a meeting with Mr.Bigshot X in the evening at 5 PM today, and I think he is....."

What does that mean? Is he too busy to join us for lunch?

"So, you wont be able to join us?"

"Actually, when I got up this morning , Ms.Attractive from your group had called me...."

Well yes, she is there for lunch. So are you coming ??

"So, you would be joining us ?"

" Actually ...."

Can you tell me whether I have to make a reservation for you or not? Apparently not. At this point, I make the decision.

" OK, so I am not including you in the reservation. Sorry you cannot join us. Hey... I am getting another call... talk to you later, bye!". CUT.

The whole point of decision-making for these people seems to be to avoid taking a position that you can be tied down to. Putting your leg in both boats so that you can argue that you are in either... or neither... as the situation demands.

And my stand on that is not ambiguous. I don't justify it saying "Well, there are reasons...". I say that it's a waste of time to talk to people who cannot answer a straight question. Trying to help them decide is like trying to hold on to an eel.

Sometimes it is not irritation I feel but pity. So many people today don't seem to know what they want or what they feel.

Do you love your job? "Uhmmm..."
Do you want a change? "I guess ..."
Do you love your wife? "Yeah ... hmmm..."
Do you want me to kill you?"Well..."

Yes, that may be overstepping the line. But I think there may come a time when that might be the response to the question. Why live when you are not sure if you want to be living? Or if you are indifferent to it?

I do not say that there are no grey areas in life. Sometimes it is required to allow both possibilities to exist. But I feel that is heavily over-used -- as an excuse to avoid taking responsibility for a commitment. So that if one boat sinks, the other is still available. So that if both boats sink, you can argue that you were not actually in either one. And if one boat wins a race... well, you were a part of it too, right?

But the truth is this: You may get the credit of winning a few, be able to escape the consequences of losing a few. You may be safe most of the time and escape the worst when things are bad. You can compromise on taking a firm stance, you can live in the big grey cloud of fuzziness that is neither here nor there... But that safety too comes at a cost.

What would happen to our country in a war if the commander when asked if the battalion should attack, responds "Maybe"? When it's your life on the line and the jury responds to "Is he guilty?" with "Well, it could be either way..."?

In times of War or Peace, those who lead are not those who are designated with the authority to lead. The leaders are those who can take decisions, who can justify them, who can stand by them, who can take responsibility for them. They are those who can look at another straight in the eye and live by the conviction of what they believe in. They are those who have faith in God, and themselves and their decisions. They are the ones who can move mountains and change the world.

In the end, it's your life, and if you want to spend it on the cliff with a glider, not able to make the decision to let go of the ground, that's the choice you make.

Have you seen the view from the mountaintop as you glide down? Oops, I am sorry you missed it :-) !

Sketch-- Faces in the Mirror

2007-02-02T08:46:00.000-07:00

It was a dull and dreary night, the end of a dull and dreary day; the sort of day when gloom and moroseness seem to emanate from the walls and the earth; when the sun never peeps out from behind the heavy drapery of clouds surrounding it , and one can feel the biting chill of the wind even in one’s bones. It was dark when she glanced out the window; there was neither a moon nor stars visible; only an empty blackness into which even shadows had disappeared; so dark that it seemed that morning could never come again to disperse the heavy blackness.

"Another cloudy day ... seems that it will never change..."

She leaned back and stared at the reflection in the mirror. It was not the same face she used to see once; gone was light of childhood innocence, the hope that used to light up the eyes. There were traces of tears, like raindrops upon the glass windows after the rain has stopped. There was not even a suggestion of the smile that once never left the face; it had been replaced by a pasted imitation that could fool all but the most observant.

“I look old!” she thought. She felt old. It did not seem like it had just been a year. A year that had left her feeling scarred and bruised inside; lost and drained of all hope and faith. She sighed, idly tracing the outline of her chin on the mirror with her fingers.

The face in the mirror looked back at her, and as she looked, it seemed to change. The eyes became hollowed out, empty, with a blankness that was beyond pain or despair; it was an absence of feeling, as if they had wept all of their tears and were incapable of weeping. The brows were drawn together, not in a frown, but as if that had become the permanent expression of the face. The cheeks were pale and withered, concave... there were wrinkles around her mouth, lines drawn as if to accentuate its downward droop. The lips were pursed, etched in a smile of triumphant bitterness. It was the face of a cynic; the face of one who had no expectation of happiness, no reason to wonder what the next hour will bring—just the certainty that it would be more despair.

“Look at me!” she said in angry bitterness. “I am the one who is paying for your mistakes! I have nothing, nothing in my life… No reason to live. Every day drags on, changeless, hopeless… just breathing in and out. I had dreams once… beautiful, cherished dreams... Lost…all lost…because of your choices. I have nothing to offer anyone… I am no one. There is no one to be happy that I am alive…no one to shed a tear when I die … no one to smile remembering me… Can you even understand how lonely I am? Nobody ever enters my house… why should they? I have nothing but bitterness and regrets… How terrible it is to be alone, totally alone… But why me? Just because of your foolishness!”

“Look well at me… I am your future…” she smiled bitterly. “I am your fate.”

She looked away from the mirror, shuddering. Oh, what point is there in living to become…to become that!!

Something seemed to flicker… perhaps lightning in the distance. She glanced at the mirror, hoping the apparition had gone away… hoping it had just been a trick of the light and her imagination. She blinked… the face… her face… Was it her past? The eyes were alive with laughter and she seemed to be glowing with some inner light. The cheeks were rounded in health, and there was a smile that seemed to be not just from her lips but from her whole face. Yet, there were crow's feet around those eyes, as if drawn by a thousand smiles and endless laughter, there were wrinkles around her mouth, but they seemed to widen her smile…the hair was gray, but seemed to be glowing like silver. It was a face that personified joy and wisdom. The eyes looked at her with understanding and without reproach--not with forgiveness, but as if there was no reason for forgiveness…

“Thank you!” the image said. “You are the one who taught me that life is not about what I do, but how I do it. You made mistakes, but learnt from it… you found something good in everything that happened to you, no matter how bad it seemed. You taught me to become stronger for every experience, to grow… to respond, not react when things went wrong. You showed me that the worse the situation, the greater the opportunity! That was something that always made me look forward to a new day… a new sunrise … a new beginning every time. I am alone, but not lonely; I have so much in my life! I have friends and family who care about me and who are very dear to me, I have so many people whom I can help and who help me love life more each day! You taught me that my life may be different, but it need not be bitter or full of pain—that I can be something… someone in this world… that I can make a difference! I did not chase happiness—it came to me; I did not need to search for peace, I found it within me…”

“Thank you so much! If I could, I would choose the same past once again… I have no regrets…”

She stared wide-eyed at the mirror, unable to move… She blinked and when she looked at the mirror again, it showed her the face she saw every day, the marks of tears still evident on it. Had she been dreaming? Perhaps… it had been a long day … perhaps she had slept off. She put the mirror away and glanced out the window again. The night had changed-- a full moon was shining, the clouds had blown away and a million stars were twinkling brightly.

“Tomorrow will be a beautiful day!” she thought to herself with a smile as she lay down to sleep.

Random Thoughts

2007-01-27T22:01:00.000-07:00

Q - “What do you do when the biggest and most cherished dream of your life shatters and is lost?”

A - “Dream again; Dream bigger, better, wiser…. And start chasing the new dream all over again.”

I did not get this quote anywhere in particular; it came naturally in a conversation with a friend. Perhaps my mind picked it out from its extensive stores, accumulated from years of voracious reading; perhaps it is the assimilated output of various positive influences and ideas; perhaps it is another’s thought; perhaps it is my own. I lay no claim to its originality; or to the thought itself. I just realized, as I said it, that it was the only way to truly live.

Mistakes, setbacks, tragedies, failures… happen. Sometimes they are inevitable, sometimes avoidable but still happen; sometimes they are just wrong choices. But no mistake, no tragedy and no failure qualifies us to stop living. There are no “showstoppers” in life – unless we let them stop the show.

Sometimes it takes a road block or a dead end to make us realize we are headed the wrong way. It takes a hard blow to make us rethink what we take for granted. It takes a blinding light to show what we choose to ignore or overlook. Every mistake or failure brings with it two opportunities: first, to learn how NOT to do something; and second, to learn how to be stronger or better for the experience. Life is all about these opportunities for growth. It is up to us how we choose to make use of them. No one can stop us from dreaming again, except ourselves. It is painful to lose a dream-- but it is death to stop dreaming.

Every way does not lead to a dead end, though many may. I thank God for dead ends! At least, they stop me from going too far in a way not right for me! Every time I find one, I just have change direction; find a new way, a new road, a new direction, sometimes a better destination and a new dream to chase.

All I have to do is keep going.

A New Beginning...

2007-01-02T07:22:00.000-07:00

It's New Year... A time to look back at the past year and remember it's lessons, bitter and sweet... a time to look forward with new hope, new dreams and renewed energy. It is a time to let go of the past and it's mistakes, to revive the good things; a time to grow, a time to change.

To those of my readers who have returned to this site repeatedly in the past year while it has been sadly neglected: I am honored and humbled by your loyalty! I hope I do not let you down again. I intend to blog and write as regularly as time permits. :-)

My writing has always been a reflection of me... You will find changes, for I too have changed. Other than the changes in me, I also intend to change the style of my blog. In addition to my poems and stories, I intend to include writing that cannot be categorised into either-- just "writing".

What I wished to share when I started this blog was my world. To that ideal, I hope to always be true.

Wish you all a Happy New Year! May you learn to love life and it's experiences , both bitter and sweet, a little more this year.

Poem--Acceptance

2005-08-01T08:16:00.000-06:00

Decorate me not, with your labels:
Like a dress I have outgrown,
They sit awkwardly upon me,
Not belonging; peeling off;
Stifling my soul with the narrowness
To which you confine me.

They let you imagine me
As what you wish me to be.

Paint me not with your hues;
Each of you perceives me
Through the tint of your own eyes
And sort me like candy.
Then you accuse me: like a chameleon,
Of changing color with every view.

In truth, it is you who view me in colors,
And you, whose perceptions change.

Fashion me not in your shapes:
I am not soft clay to be molded;
I have a form and contour
That cannot be changed with force;
Your compulsion may break me
But it cannot re-sculpt me.

I do not need to look like you:
It is you who need me to fit in.

Stop trying to define me—
I defy your simplistic definitions,
Do not hope to classify me:
I do not fit in your pretty categories.
Do not try to remodel me,
I have been modeled as I was meant to be

I am. And proud to be.

Accept me.

Sketch--Czechoslovakia*

2005-07-19T12:23:00.000-06:00

My cheeks burn as I sat there, grappling with conflicting emotions. I took a deep breath. “It will keep happening”, I told myself, “So better get used to it”.

I was happy for her. I truly was. This was not about her. It was only about me.

The chatter around me was getting louder… Or was that my imagination? I looked around. Nobody was saying a word. The voices were in my head. I pressed my hands to my ears, but they would not stop. Mocking, jeering voices of a hundred imps that live in my head. They laugh at me because I kept believing. And waiting.

I realized she was saying something to me. About suitcases. About what she would need. I tried to say something, but nothing meaningful would come out. I needed to make sense of the chaos in my mind as my feelings battled it out. “Just a min”, I said and got to the ladies room. I stared at myself in the mirror and opened the tap. First splash. “I’m happy for her. We have been partners in distress for too long.” Second splash.” I’m envious. She escaped. I didn’t.” Third splash. “She’s my friend and she just got a good break. Forget about this and get back there.” I obeyed myself and got back there.

But I could not forget.

My cheeks burned again as we got together to bid her farewell. Eulogies. Leg pulling. Best wishes. Old jokes aired one last time. Forgotten nicknames revived for old times’ sake. Laughter.

“It could have been me”

“It isn’t.”

“It may be me next.”

“There I go again.” The imps in my head were cracking up with laughter.

I went back and checked my mail. Photographs from my old roommate who is now onsite. I clicked on it, but after the first photo, I closed the window. I did not want to bring on another round of might-have-been-me’s.

The tingling was still there as the day ended. Sitting in the bus, I thought of what my friend had written. ‘Good things will happen to good people’. “Maybe that was it. Maybe I am not among the good people.”

These imps were really irritating me.

“My turn will come.” I tell them sternly. Cackle cackle.

“That’s number 18”.

“Number 18 of what?”

“The number of times I’ve said that already.”

I wish the imps would not refer to me in first person.

I wish they weren’t right.

“Well, I’ll do something about it.” I said, trying to hold on to my determination, but sounding unsure, even to myself.

“Like what?”

Why do they always have a point?

“Something”

“Number…”

“Just shut up.”

Cackle cackle.

I took up a book and resolutely ignored them. Not that it stopped them of course.

My mobile rang just as I finally managed to get them to shut up.

“Hi Ma”

“Are you Ok? You don’t sound too good.”

How is it that she always knows from my voice?

“I’m fine. Just a headache and touch of flu.”

“Liar, liar…” went the imps in my head.

“Took any medicine?”

“Hmmm-mm”

“What other news?”

“ Nothing much. Er..mmm… Deepa is going onsite tomorrow.”

“OK.”

Loud pause. I knew what was coming next. Strike one. I should not have mentioned that.

“What is happening with yours?”

“Hmmm…they are saying it will take more time.”

“We should really be thinking of your marriage. If you are not going, we could have it in August or something”

Not again.

“Ma, it will happen…”

“You are not getting any younger, you know”

“Ma, I’m just 24. I have time”

“Most girls your age are married. At your age, I had already had you”

“Ma, PLEASE.”

“Well, think about it. There is no use delaying things if…”

“Ok ok. How’s dad?” I needed a change of topic.

“Worried about you. He was talking about it last night. He says if something happens to us… He wants to see you settled while we are still hale and healthy.”

OK, that was strike two.

“Ma, you both are perfectly fine and there’s nothing to worry about. Hmm…my stop is nearing; I’ll call you later”

Liar, Liar…

“OK. Take care of your health. Eat well”

“Hmmm.”

One of these days, I would strike out.

I needed to talk to someone. I dialed my fiancé.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nauseous with envy”

“Who is it this time?”

“Deepa.”

“When?”

“This weekend.”

“Hmmm…Well…forget it, sweetheart. Don’t let your feelings be affected by things beyond your control.”

That’s easier said than done. I sighed.

Home sweet home. My roommate took one look at my face and asked “Bad day?”

“You have no idea.”

“Dinner?”

“I think I’ll skip. Not hungry.”

Oh, so we’re gonna lie down and think about this, are we? Cackle cackle…Can’t wait…

“On second thoughts…. What are we making?”

“Sambar and Rice”

“Ok. Lemme cut the vegetables.”

She raised one eyebrow.

“I’m in a mood to cut up some people into very small pieces.”

“People?”

“Hmm… I’ll just pretend the carrots and potatoes are among those.”

“Er….Ok...I guess.”

I cracked open two coconuts, and started on the carrots.

“Er…the pieces don’t need to be that finely cut, you know.”

I looked at her. She smiled.
“Fine, ma’am. Let me know once you are finished with all the murders. I need the…er...bodies.”

“Almost done”

Dinner time. I still didn’t have an appetite.

“So, who all are we eating?”

“I think almost half of the management at my office.”

She smiled.

“Did they deserve it?”

“Hmmm…Well, no…But I am in no mood to be fair.”

We both laughed at that.

But it still stung…

*****************

The mail sat in my mailbox and I stared at it. I scanned it once more to be sure of what it said. Nothing. There was nothing in it that warranted a second glance. Except the list of people it had been sent to.

Even a cursory glance told me that all the recipients were in the same situation as I was. Did that mean anything? Probably nothing at all.

But it was a tantalizingly suggestive “nothing”, a million possibilities hidden in the very ordinariness of that mail, in its generality.

My glance kept running to that row in my inbox. I took up the phone and called my friend, another recipient of that mail.

“You saw it?”

“Hmmm.”

“Well?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah.”

The silence implied that it was the same for her. A choice—whether to hope and be disappointed again, or ignore it and—But it was impossible to ignore it.

“Well, we’ll know at 3:00”

“Yeah.”

“It’s probably nothing.”

Silence. Then I heard her sigh.

“Yeah, probably.”

“Let’s see.”

“Hmmm”

I looked at it again. It was going to be a long wait.

Not that I was unused to that.

Lunch buzzed with the discussion about the mail. Apparently, my observation of the mailing list was on target. The mail was from a biggie. Lunch was punctuated by debates on why some were in that list and some were not.

I listened. Nausea was flooding me and a vague ache hovered in my head. Apprehension? Or acidity? Or both?

Cackle cackle. "Think it is gonna be different this time? When will I learn?"

The imps were in form again and my head was buzzing.

A pacification. That would be it, I knew. Just another ego-soothener. Too mild for ego wounds that ran deep. Insignificant in the context. “No changes, but this is why.”; “We just wanted to let you know.”; “As soon as possible” “We are definitely looking into it”; “We have strategies in place which will come into effect soon”.

At least they would have made an effort, I told the imps.

Cackle cackle. “The sweet, loyal, employee who wants to fall for it again? Wow, they really have it good with me.”

Why do I put up with this?

Because they may be mean, they may drive me crazy, but they are invariably right. They are just voices in my head, but they are not hypocrites.

H-Y-P-O-C-R-I-T-E-S. I spelt the word out idly. I imagined the letters hanging from the ceiling. I counted them forward and then I counted them backward.

It didn’t make me feel much better, but at least the imps were quiet.

At 4:00 pm, I was staring at the monitor with a triumphantly bitter smile. I’m getting good at this. Predictability is a good thing. I ought to write the scripts for the management. I know exactly what they want to say. And how they would say it.

Then my PM called me.

I felt sorry for him. He was almost as much a victim as I was. I wondered how it would feel if I had to sit there. Knowing what had to be done. And having no choice.

Yes, I did feel sorry for him.

He spoke. I smiled at him. I nodded. Yes , I understood.

The imps stopped buzzing in my head. Instead, there was an eerie quiet. I heard the verdict loud and clear.

All the better to accept it. Move on.

The light weight in my heart must be a trick of my mind. It was quite fine. I could laugh as we walked to the canteen. Yes, the book was quite nice. Film this weekend? Maybe. Hmmm… no, not going home this weekend.

Then something imploded near the center of my chest. For a moment, the world darkened.

Impact. Even when you expect it, it takes some time to hit you that you’ve reached a dead end. The End. No more hope. No more dreams.

The rest of the evening was a dream. Or as hazy as one.

And the next few days. Physical impact? Maybe it was the weather. The heat wave had been horrible. Maybe that would explain the sudden fever and nausea attack that drained all my energy in the next few days.

No, it probably had nothing to do with dying dreams at all.

* Czechoslovakia - a term my friends and I use to signify the vagaries of management; based on a joke that we once got in a mail.

Short Sketch--Homecoming

2005-07-11T23:05:00.000-06:00

As soon as they heard my footsteps, my sisters rushed to where I stood. They stopped, a few feet away, as if unable to believe it. Then they rushed back to tell Mother that I had come…

And I closed my eyes.

Why had I stayed away so long?

This is where I have always found Peace. This is where I could close my eyes and breathe deeply… fully; free of the frantic pace of the rat race. This is where I could bask in the freedom of my soul, in an understanding that transcends explanation.

Why is it that I come here so rarely? Why do I stay away for months together, until some inexplicable force drags me here?

Because I cannot stand it. I cannot stand the realization that life is slipping away from my control. I cannot stand the Truth that this terrible sprint for survival and frenzied grabbing of material goals is not where I find contentment. I cannot stand the comprehension that in the quest to win, I was losing more than I could afford to.

I cannot stand the insight that pierces my blindness and shows me, so simply, what I really love.

I cannot stand the Happiness I find here.

I felt the caress of my Mother’s fingers through my hair, her soft kiss upon my forehead. I felt the salt of her tears upon my lips. I sensed her love and her reproach, her tenderness and her pain.

My tears mingled with hers as my defenses crumbled. I sat down for a minute, letting myself be, letting go of the heavy chains that I had tied myself to. I wondered why I never realized what a burden I always carried, until I set it down.

I wondered why I had to go back.

Why couldn’t I just give myself over to her gentle embrace? Why couldn’t I be as my sisters and cousins were, always bound together, yet always free?

But, even as I heard her song of welcome and my soul sang along with her, I knew it was not yet time. My chains still claimed me as their slave; I had yet to earn my freedom.

For a long while, I sat there, enveloped in a sense of tranquility. For a long while, I watched my sisters frolic and dance, beckoning me to their midst.

A long while I sat at the seashore, a Mermaid born with legs, a soul-child of the Sea, a sister of the waves and sea creatures, listening to their calls, swathed in a sense of belonging so deep, that to step away was soul-wrenching.

And then I walked back, the sea’s music still echoing in my soul, back to a world that claimed me as one of their own, and yet did not know me at all.

My Book List!!

2005-07-07T21:11:00.000-06:00

My Book List… not comprehensive, but definitely the cream of it… :-)

On my list of Forever Loves:

To Kill A Mockingbird – Harper Lee
The Prophet – Khalil Gibran
The Alchemist – Paulo Coelho
The Moon and Sixpence – Somerset Maugham
Atlas Shrugged- Ayn Rand
Jane Eyre – Charlotte Brönte
Pride And Prejudice – Jane Austen
Illusions – Richard Bach
The Agony and the Ecstasy-Irving Stone
Mill on the Floss – George Eliot
Gitanjali – Rabindranath Tagore
The Good Earth - Pearl S. Buck
Letters to Peking - Pearl S. Buck
The Old Man And the Sea- Earnest Hemmingway
The Fountainhead – Ayn Rand
Ramayana – Different translations
Mahabharatha – Different Translations
Greek and Roman Mythology ( Illiad, Odeyssey and other legends)

My "Like" list:

Three Men in a Boat /Three Men on a Bummel – Jerome K. Jerome
Lust for Life –Irving Stone
Harry Potter ( the whole series)- J.K.Rowling
The Bridge across Forever/One – Richard Bach
An Equal Music- Vikram Seth
The Life of Pi -Yann Martel
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy- Douglas Adams
The Village by The Sea – Anita Desai
Malgudi Days/Stories for the Innocent- R.K. Narayan

Childhood Loves ( I still occasionally sneak a peek!) :

The Diary of Anne Frank- Anne Frank
Louisa May Alcott ( all of hers’)
Lucy Maud Montgomery ( all of hers too)
The Secret garden, A little Princess, The Lost Prince , Little Lord Fauntleroy– Frances Burnett
The Railway Children , Five Children and it etc- E. Nesbit
Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm – Kate Douglas Wiggin
Pollyanna – Eleanor H. Porter
Uncle Tom’s Cabin -Harriet Beecher Stowe
Adventures of Sherlock Holmes ( the whole collection!!)

Poetry/Short Story/Drama and Miscellaneaus stuff:

Waiting for Godot – (Drama) – Samuel Beckett
All My Sons ( Drama) – Arthur Miller
Poetry by Percy Blythe Shelley (Ode to the West Wind)
Poetry By Robert Frost (The Road not taken)
Short stories- O. Henry
Poetry/Prose by Rabindranath Tagore
Poetry/Prose By Khalil Gibran
Linda Goodman’s Books on Astrology (I have a fascination for the super-natural)
Books on Occult and psychic phenomenon (same reason as above)

Ambivalent—I respect them, they are good—but disturbing is some way…

Satanic Verses/ Midnight’s Children/The Ground Beneath Her Feet – Salman Rushdie ( He muddles up my sense of right , wrong, good, evil , love and hate--but you can hate it and still not be able to ignore it!!)
1984- George Orwell ( The most pessimistic book I have ever read, put me in the blues for a week, but powerfully presented)

Not on my list:

God of Small Things – Arundhati Roy. ( Her language and style of writing is unique, but I did not like her story...Ok sue me! :-) )

Short Sketch--First Love

2005-07-07T09:21:00.000-06:00

I was twenty two when I fell truly in love for the first time. I had had crushes before, but they were never really serious. But Rishi was different…

I don’t think I really got over it. Even now, when I call and he answers, I am bowled over by the sound of his voice. And he has not forgotten me either; he always recognizes my voice instantly, and he calls me often. I can almost see that winsome smile when I hear him…

I first met him when he came with his mother to visit his aunt. Nalini deedi was my neighbor. I had just completed my graduation at the time and I had a lot of time on my hands. I used to drop in on her often just for some light-hearted gossip, and it was one of those times that she told me that her sister Raji and nephew Rishi were coming for a short visit.

“Rishi is such a nice boy! Quite mature for his age, very intelligent, warm and caring…” She was all praises for her nephew, but I just took that as an aunt’s prejudice. At the time, I was on particularly harsh terms with the male population, and I did not believe there were any worth knowing among them. Having been subjected to two “pennu kaanal” ceremonies (Ceremony of seeing the girl with a view to marrying her) had decidedly embittered me towards the male population.

But the minute I saw him, I was lost. I had heard of love at first sight, but this?! Who could resist that smile, or those eyes? He was the picture of perfection. His features looked as if they had been honed to flawlessness by a Master sculptor. His eyes were bright, fearless and open, as if he expected everyone to be his special friend. His smile, both shy and endearing, reminded me of the sun peeping from behind heavy clouds during the monsoons. He was better dressed than any guy I had seen so far; though he probably had his mother to thank for that! And he was courteous and friendly; altogether, very, very attractive.

And I fell in love with him.

He made me think about what my mother had hinted at the day I graduated; about marriage, and having a family. He made me wonder if it was not time to settle down… He made me wonder what it would be like if he were my own.

It wasn’t the same for him though. At first, he was a bit reserved, though considerate and polite; he would watch me as I spoke to his mother and aunt, and sometimes give me a quick smile. I used to wait for those moments, pretending I wasn’t looking at him, but he quickly saw through that and would laugh when he caught me peeping. I don’t believe those eyes missed a thing that was happening around him. I was constantly astonished at his perceptiveness and intelligence.

He never could pronounce my name properly, but I loved the way he spoke my name. When he saw me at the door, I’d strain to hear as he went to call his aunt and announce my arrival.

But it was the day of the interview that made all the difference.

It was horrible, that interview! The interviewer seemed to have some sadistic pleasure in breaking me down. By the end of it, I was sure I was hopelessly stupid, worthless and would never get a job or be anything in life. It was in total dejection that I rang the bell at Nalini deedi’s place, and Rishi came to the door. He looked at my face and for a moment, his face seemed to mirror my unhappiness. When I sat on the sofa, he hesitated a moment, and then sat by me. Then he cautiously patted my hand and gave me a smile.

I was so touched! I smiled at him through my tears and the relief on his face was obvious. What odd places one finds empathy and understanding! He waited a few moments, while I regained my composure. Then as usual, he went in to call his mother. At the door, he turned and smiled, as if sharing a secret. My heart almost burst with happiness. All my gloom was wiped away as if by magic!

That day I noticed him observing me closely and as I was leaving, I saw him looking at me through the window. On an impulse, I turned and waved. And to my joy, he smiled and waved back.

We became friends after that. He’d look out the window and smile delightedly when he saw me. Once he got acquainted, he began to talk to me. I could listen to him for hours together. His mother would smile as she saw us sitting together. Sometimes, we went out together, and his lively interest revived the old sights of the city in my eyes too.

I didn't know how long it would last, but I did not care. I woke up each day looking forward to seeing him, went to sleep smiling over something he had said. I grabbed each moment like a precious jewel, to be stored away as memories.

Three weeks flew by and then--it was over. I thought my heart would break when I saw tears in his usually smiling eyes. I watched from the door sadly as they got ready to leave, wondering if I would ever see him again. I had always known he would have to go, but it was heart-wrenching whenit happened.

Just as he was about to get into the taxi, he turned, ran to me and hugged me tightly. He wiped the tears from my eyes and kissed me on both cheeks.

Then he pushed his favorite red car into my hands and lisped with all the fervor of his three years “Thanthechi, thish ish for you. I luvv you velly much.”

“I love you too, Rishi kutta”

And I still do. He just called me to tell me about his first day at school.

No matter how many loves I have in my life, he will always be my very first true love.

Poem--Freedom

2005-07-01T04:29:00.000-06:00

Can I be true to my soul?
Can I reach beyond the mirage
Of reason and sensibility
To unleash the forces in me?
Can I look beyond the illusion
Of what the world offers me
And see a new dimension—
A vision beyond all dreams?
Can I hear the voices of the Muse
Through the unending cacophony
Of the multitudes surrounding me—
To vibrate to the chords of the music
That the storm and the winds sway to?
Do I dare to free my thoughts
From the confines of ignorant tranquillity
To scale the depths and heights
Of a mighty, restless ocean?
Do I dare to dream
Shattering the horizons of imagination,
Entering a boundless galaxy of eternal truth?
Do I dare to be one
With the potent forces of the Being
And find the person I really am?

Do I dare… to be free?

Poem--The Hymn of the Lodestar*

2005-06-23T21:57:00.000-06:00

Mistake not Silence for Peace, Stranger…

Silence is the brittle Stillness of a dam about to burst;
Peace is the velvet Calm of a river running deep.

Silence is the blanket of Fear on a moonless night;
Peace is the misty Glory of breaking dawn.

Silence is the relentless Bondage in seething Hatred;
Peace is the serene Acceptance in unconditional Love.

Silence is—
The handcuff of Guilt,
The obstinacy of Foolishness,
The hesitation of Cowardice;

Peace is—
The adornment of Innocence,
The confidence of Wisdom,
The constancy of Courage.

In Silence is death without Death; in Peace is Eternal Life.

Silence is not Peace, Pilgrim;
Yet, in Enlightenment, You will discern—

In Silence lies the Opportunity
To find the Path…

And the Choice to seek Infinite Peace.

*Lodestar- Guiding star/Leading star

Poem--Morning Star

2005-06-21T02:18:00.000-06:00

I admire you, Morning Star;
You are alone, just as I—
Yet you shine as bright as you can:
Many a dawn or dusk, you’ve shone
Greeting the fading or brightening sky
With your steady, hopeful glow…
Don’t you feel lonely, in the vast sky, alone?
Don’t you ever yearn for a friend?
Be it cloudy or clear, you are still alone—
Though a million glorious diamond stars
Cluster around in self-same constellations;
You can never be one among them,
Even when they surround you…
Don’t you ever wish for that feeling
Of belonging somewhere, having a place
For you, instead of wandering here and there?
You always shine out, bright as ever—
Behind that brave glow, is there a star-heart
As lonesome and sad as a human heart?
Maybe we can be friends: you and I—
So I can learn to shine, like you,
Through dusk to dawn, unflinching,
Bright with the starlight of hope…
Alone—a soldier at your heavenly post;
The first one to shine when the night sets in,
And unfailing until it is past.
Maybe you can belong to me,
And I belong to you…maybe?
Maybe I am just a lone star too,
And we were meant thus to be.

Poem--Return

2005-06-19T22:04:00.000-06:00

I walked along old, forgotten paths,
Once frequented and beloved;
I looked, and a rush of memories
With fresh colours, painted that faded sight—
With voices and laughter and familiar forms
That never again shall pass that way.

I sat by the tree in whose cool shade,
We had sworn lifelong friendship;
Friends who, with hours and days and miles
Had been lost on life’s busy roads;
Their shadows still flit, with every breeze
Under that evergreen, gnarled old tree.

I wandered by the park, and our playhouse,
Where we’d spent unnumbered hours;
I sat in the hollow near the stream
Where we’d shared a thousand hopes and dreams;
Soft whispers still echo in that cave,
In refrain to that streamlet’s song…

I was startled—I heard a forgotten voice—
And turning, found a faintly familiar face;
We sat and shared those childhood’s tales:
Bridged, for an hour, the years between,
And then I walked back, alone again;
A day spent I, with memories.

Poem--Helplessness

2005-06-16T22:03:00.000-06:00

Relentless, the Hand of Destiny:
Now showering grace with unwonted abundance,
Or whisking away from destitute fates;
Now binding in chains of cruel injustice,
Unchangeable, unbreakable, twisted and tight;
Rending heartstrings with a merciless wrench;
Knotting, un-knotting a thousand ties;
Now drawing together, now pulling apart;
Making and breaking, as if in play:
Destroying, creating in indifferent abandon.
With a touch, shattering a world of hopes,
With another, building anew…..
Like puppets dancing to chaotic whims
Of subtle, unseen cords,
Powerless in manipulation:
Behind the curtain of visibility—
An Omnipotent Puppeteer.

Short Story--Kabool hai?

2005-06-15T05:16:00.000-06:00

“Kabool hai?"1

The air was filled with the mingled fragrance of mehendi, incense, flowers and perfume. The tiny mirrors on the decorations and the ladies dresses and jewels twinkled like stars in soft light. The old Qazi’s voice was hypnotic as he read the nikaah2 namah3 from the other side of the curtain.

“Kabool hai?”

Within the veil, Shabana closed her eyes. All around her, the women waited with bated breath. Image after image tumbled in her mind’s eye like a kaleidoscope.

**********

Kasim’s naughty eyes as he stood in the middle of the bridge across the stream.

“Give it back!”

“Will you?”

“No.”

“Then—” He held the book poised over the stream in a silent threat.

“No, no…the Ustad would kill me!! Please, please Kasim…”

“Say you will.”

“OK, OK—I’ll marry you. Now please give it back…”

Kasim pursed his lips in triumph and came back over the bridge.

“Here.”

Shabana snatched the book and put her tongue out at him, turned and ran.

“I’ll never marry you…” she shouted when she was too far away for him to catch her.

Kasim cocked his cap with a naughty smile and winked at her. She could still see the confidence in that seven-year-old’s smile.

“You will!” he had shouted back.

**********

Kasim at the bangle shop, peeping at the window.

“Go away, Kasim, Ammi would see you.”

“Let her.”

“No! I will get scolded.”

“I didn’t come to see you, I came to see Anjuman.”

Shabana pouted and turned. Kasim pulled the ribbon on her braid.

“Let go…” She tried to pull away.

“Ha ha… bye….” He laughed and ran away with the ribbon. He was already taller than most boys at fifteen, and his bronze-brown hair flew in the wind as he ran.

**********

Kasim dancing with her brothers and cousins on Zarina Aapa5’s mehendi night4.

“Hmmm, what a handsome boy Kasim has become!” Shayina Deedi5 pinched Shabana’s cheeks as she blushed. “When will your nikaah be, sweetheart?”

“Deedi…!”

“Look at her blush!”

“I’m still in college”

“That will be a year or two more…”

“Then I want to study further”

“Hmmm…and what if Kasim won’t wait that long? He’s already doing well in his business…He’ll want a bride soon.

“He will wait!”

Shayina Deedi laughed and pinched her cheeks again.

“That much confidence?”

Shabana laughed.

**********

Kasim with his face hidden by the flowered sehra6 at their wedding. He looked like a prince on the chestnut horse.

“What a wonderful match”

“They were made for each other”

Her friends tittered as they brought Kasim to the zenana7 for mooh-dikhayi 8.

“Are you seeing your bride for the first time?” Zakina teased him.

“Yes…”

“Jeejaji9…we know everything!!” they had laughed.

“I’ve seen Shabbu before, but she was never my bride before!” he told them, laughing.

Mamaji put a mirror on the table and covered both of them with a red dupatta. When Shabana moved her veil and looked into the mirror, Kasim crossed his eyes and put out his tongue.

Shabana laughed.

“You’ll never change.”

Kasim winked and smiled. Shabana blushed.

**********

Kasim with red eyes and a glint in his eyes she had never seen before.

She did not even remember what she had said. All she remembered was hearing a dull thud. And realizing just before she fainted that it was the sound of the bronze vase hitting her head.

By the time they took her to the hospital, she had lost a lot of blood…and her child too. In the third month, shock was reason enough for the miscarriage.

Abbu had insisted on the separation. And Kasim, broken by the losses in the business, the cursed intoxicants and the guilt of what he had done to her, never said anything. Her Mamaji and Zarina Aapa were both weeping but they were both witnesses. And Kasim had looked stricken when he had said it.

“Talaaq10”

It was hardly more than a whisper, but Shabana thought thunder could not have sounded more earth-shattering. Three times; and she flinched and shuddered as she heard it.

**********

Abbu pleading with her, looking old and sad.

“I know it is very soon, but you are young and Shareef is a good boy.”

“Abbu, I cant…”

“Beti, I am old and won’t be around for long. How will I die in peace if you are not—“

“Abbu!!”

“Shabbu, I am begging you. Shareef will be returning in two weeks…”

“Abbu…Kasim…”

“Forget him, beti. It is past and will never come back. Please agree…”

“Abbu…”

“Shall I go ahead with the Nikaah preparations?”

Shabana bit her lips and tears coursed slowly down her cheeks. She nodded.

**********
“Kabool hai?”

Is it acceptable? No, thought Shabana. Life was not supposed to change like this. Kasim was not supposed to change. We have always been together. We were meant to be together. No, it is not acceptable. I still love him. They never asked me if it was acceptable when they made him divorce me. They never asked me if I wanted my life to change. I did not want this to happen.

But it has. And life goes on.

“Tell the Qazi, beti. Kabool hai?” an old lady beside her whispered.

Shabana opened her eyes. She took a deep breath.

“Kabool hai.” she said.

The echoes went up in the air as the women repeated it breathlessly.

**********
1- Kabool hai? – The Qazi ( Muslim cleric) traditionally asks the girl if she is agreeable before leaving to the mosque for he Nikaah. Literal meaning – “Is it acceptable?” if it is in the form of a question and "It is acceptable" if it is a statement.
2- Nikaah- Marriage
3- Nikaah Namah- Document of marriage.
4- Mehendi Night- Usually the night before the day of the marriage or Nikaah. The bride’s palms and feet are decorated with henna designs on this evening.
5- Aapa/Deedi- Sister
6- Sehra- A flower garland to cover the groom’s face on the day of marriage.
7- Zenana- the part of the house reserved for women and girls in a Muslim household
8- mooh-dikhayi- Literally “face- showing”. Traditionally, the time after the nikaah that the groom is showed the bride’s face. A mirror is placed beneath the veil to show him the girl’s face.
9- Jeejaji- Brother-in-law
10- Talaaq- Divorce

Poem--Inspiration…

2005-06-14T21:51:00.000-06:00

If I am a kite, riding the winds,
You are the string that secures me,
Keeping me from being tossed into oblivion,
And yet spurring me on to greater heights...

If I am a tree, reaching towards the heavens,
You are the root that nourishes my soul,
Giving me the strength to grow and climb,
Holding me unshaken through rain and shine...

If I am a vision, linking Thought and Dream,
You are the Truth that extends my horizons,
Bringing the impossible into my realm of space,
Instilling in me, the echo of a prophecy...

If I am a statue, shaped in marble and clay,
You are the Power that makes me real;
Breathing life into my frozen heart—
A pulsating tendon that knows joy, and pain...

If I am a poet, stringing words as pearls,
You transform mere words to Poetry;
Making my thoughts reverberate in other hearts,
Infusing in it, the indelible touch of Love...

Without you, I exist incomplete—
A lost kite upon the wind—Aimless;
A tree, hollow and weak—Soul-less;
A dream, stranger to reality—Senseless;
A pottery, of dead mud—Lifeless;
A wordsmith with a rhyme—Meaningless;
You are my Fulfilment—
The expression of my True Self!

Poem--Boredo(o)m

2005-06-14T00:14:00.000-06:00

In the midst of another vacuum:

Where colors have faded
Into drab, senseless shades
Or into meaningless, grainy pictures
That trail each other in disorder;

Where music has retreated
Into the harsh hiss of background
Or faded into an indiscernible percussion
That drones in wearing monotony;

Where thoughts seem lost in patterns
Sans freshness and allure
Or drained by the palling bleakness
Of Predictability;

Where every moment seems
An incessant, tedious repetition
Of the moment that has been,
For an eternity:

Trapped—
In mediocrity.

Poem--You and I

2005-06-12T22:37:00.000-06:00

The serene depths of the ocean,
Calm, though tempests rage;
The faith that sustains me—
I’ll never walk alone…
Through the stormy path of life,
Lord, ever—You and I.

The mountain scaling the sky,
No human power can shake;
The love that I can count on,
Behind me all the way—
Through the rough and the smooth,
Daddy, ever—You and I.

The earth with all her bounty,
Unchanging with all change;
The hand that rocked my cradle,
The heart that cannot hate…
Through the thorns and the flowers,
Mama, ever—You and I.

The stream grows to a river.
The river meets the sea…
The soul-mate Lord created
Together as but one…
Through joy and pain, hand in hand,
Love, ever—You and I.

From seed to tree and to seed again,
The cycle of life abounds…
To give to you as I was given,
To love as I was loved,
Through life’s unending mystery,
My child, ever—You and I.

Poem--The Pink Slip

2005-06-07T23:15:00.000-06:00

“Dispensable”

What a harsh word
To describe someone
Who has carried the burden
Of the vagaries of corporate management
With little complaint;

What a cruel term
To eliminate the weak link
That has succumbed
Under tremendous strain
Of over-performing.

What a callous anomaly
That it was the desire
To become critical
That burnt him out,
And made him
Expendable.

What a tragic-comedy:
That a little piece of paper
Becomes a guillotine
To sever ambition and worth
In a simple stroke;
And all you are left with
Is the word:

“Dispensable”

Poem--Gaol Birds

2005-06-06T20:57:00.000-06:00

Destiny chose her
As my companion—
And she was a friend
Like no other;
She let me be myself;
Showed me the treasures
Within me, and without;
She gave me a world
Of perfection—opened my eyes
To the enchantment
Of Imagination…
She taught me to listen
To the music of Life;
Subdued strains keeping rhythm
To my heartbeat…
She helped me weave
A pattern of vibrant colours;
A living, shimmering picture
Of endless possibilities…
She taught me to fly!
She clipped my wings—
Possessive in her friendship,
She chained me to herself;
She built a wall around us—
A glass wall
That showed me all
Yet kept me from it…
My voice echoed within—
A hollow emptiness…
But the Babel of voices
Beyond my glass shell
Drowned my despairing cry;
She embraced me, all-pervading,
Secure in her possession—
Her victim, her companion for life:
I am hers alone—and she, mine;
Her name:
Loneliness…

Poem--Endless Night…

2005-06-05T21:04:00.000-06:00

Silence—
Haunts my empty hours of longing
With nameless phantoms of possibilities
And formless specters of Calamity;
Taunts my defensive Faith
With laughter at its persistence,
Mocking its supreme Folly…

Imagination—
Plays with my overwrought senses,
Feeds me on wishful day-dreams
That make Reality cruelly unbearable;
And then allies with the Silence
Casting me in tragic roles,
Enacting my worst nightmares …

Faith—
That the love I know cannot fail…
That your steadfast eyes can never lie;
That the morrow will bring a sign, a word
To shatter the brittle, heavy silence—
To annihilate the demons of Fear;
To breathe Love into the suffocating Emptiness…

The War—
A series of battles, by Day and night…
Some won, some lost—its fortunes prey
To the whims of fickle Fantasy…
Before tears dry into frozen numbness—
Before Despair is crowned upon Hope’s Throne
Wont you come?

Poem--Premonition

2005-06-05T20:59:00.000-06:00

Oh Wild Wind, potent and restless—
Why do you haunt me thus?
Fluttering open concealed thoughts
Like the leaves of a dusty book;
Raking up the leaves of memories,
Long dead, buried, lost, forgotten;
Your touch: neither caress, nor kiss—
But an icy slap upon face and limbs;
Your voice: no whispering melody
But a howling shriek of fury and anguish…
No more the mischievous prankster,
But an angry, mighty Avenger—
Tearing at my tresses and clothes,
Cracking panes and felling trees;
Oh Harbinger of Thunder and storm,
Do you bring tidings of a sister-tempest
In my life and heart?
Destroyer, Creator—Say you?—
That this, the price of a mighty Love
That both crowns and enslaves me:

That all I know and cherish,
All around and within …
Will be blown and washed away…
And I, begin life, anew?

Short Story--Kismet

2005-06-02T21:40:00.000-06:00

I started from a half-sleep as the train came to a grinding halt at a station. The voices of vendors suddenly filled the air. A ragged little beggar-girl poked my knee and touched her stomach in mute appeal. Her mother was watching from the end of the aisle. I dug out a coin from one of the pockets and gave it to her. She moved on to the next passenger.

“Excuse me…Is this seat taken?”

I looked up. A tall girl with a large bag on her shoulder pointed to the seat in front of me. I stared at her a long moment before shaking my head. “No…”

It must be part of my dreams. Those eyes…they were part of the faces in my mindless dreams.

She dropped her bag there and straightened her dress. Then she looked around, found a vacant spot on one of the upper berths and heaved her bag onto it. She sat back on the seat with a sigh. That face…I was mesmerised by that face. She caught me staring at her. I turned my eyes away—but they wandered a moment and came back to rest on her. I could not look away.

Fate is so whimsical. It snatches precious life away in moments, and then, just as suddenly, drops it in your palms

She was talking to the lady beside her.

“What’s your name?”
“Shika…”
“You are studying here?” She nodded.
“Going home for holidays…”she said, her face lighting up in a smile.
“So, you are staying in a hostel?” She nodded again. The train gave a shill whistle and started moving. As it picked up speed, sleep came to reclaim me from the leaden fatigue…fatigue of a long, long journey.

I jolted awake from a night mare…a nightmare that had been reality for an age—sixteen long, terrible years, each of which had felt like a lifetime. A reality that had left a reminder in my deadened left hand, and the scars on my body, and on my mind…and these unending nightmares. Reality had charms far more alluring than sleep. I stared at the girl again, fascinated. It was as if… as if…

She was looking out the window, a dream in her eyes. She’d smile to herself, and then grow serious, happy and sad memories reflected like a mirror on her innocent face. I could not take my eyes off her…I drifted between sleep and wakefulness, and she haunted both my dreams and reality. Stations came, and they passed, and minutes became hours, and afternoon began to lengthen into evening.

“Where are you getting down?” the man sitting next to her asked her. When had that lady got off the train? I had not noticed.

“Trissur” she said. The next station. I looked at the scenery whizzing past in mixed regret and relief. My journey was ending too.

I took up my dilapidated briefcase and opened it. In it were the treasures of an aeon of lost time… A towel, and stacks and stacks of letters. Letters that had been food, and drink, and the urge to live, when death seemed the only escape; that had dulled the agony of those endless whacks of foreign sticks and hands; that had dimmed the indignity of the endless curses in foreign tongue. Letters, whose sender had never known that they were received at all, yet never stopped writing. How…why? I had never asked. I had just accepted it as a gesture from heaven that I would survive. Having those letters forwarded to me was the one drop of humanity in that ocean of inhuman brutality that had drowned me. Prisoner of war…a POW …something lower in their eyes than even an animal…

I took the towel, went to the wash basin and washed my face. Then, wiping it quickly with the towel, I went back to my seat. The girl had pulled down her bag from the upper berth. She was watching the familiar landmarks pass by with the peculiar fascination of homecoming. Her every action mesmerised me. I drank in the simple grace of her innocence in deep draughts.

The train slowed and came to a halt. I watched her get down from the train. I waited a moment, then took up my briefcase and got off the train. I walked quickly, and spied her getting into an auto. I caught the next one.

“Follow that auto” I told the driver. He stared for a second at my shabby uniform, and the faded soldier’s insignia on my shoulder, and my hand. Then, he started the auto and followed the other one.

The auto stopped in front of a house, with a well-kept garden. I watched the girl get down with the bag and ring the doorbell. A middle-aged lady opened the door, and I could hear their laugh of happiness as they hugged each other. I stared at them, unable to move, till the door closed behind them. Then, I got out the auto and took out my purse to pay the auto driver.

I could never have forgotten those eyes…or that face. They were windows to my past. They had been the source of hope to my every moment. They would be mine. Again. Forever…

I rang the doorbell. The girl opened the door. Her eyes flickered in surprise and recognition. “You…On the train…”she murmured, frowning slightly.

“Who is it?” Her mother called from inside, and came out a moment later. She stared wide-eyed at me for a long moment, and then, with a cry, rushed into my open arms, weeping. I hugged her close. Then, between her sobs, she looked at her astonished daughter and sobbed out,” Your…Papa…darling…”

I was home…

Poem--Cacophony

2005-06-02T20:53:00.000-06:00

I stepped out:
out into the bustling street:

the traffic and the crowd;

the blaring horns,
the screeching brakes,
the revving engines…

the barks of hawkers,
the blast of Radio Mirchi
from the market;

the prattle of people,
the crying of children,
the carping of beggars…

I stepped into cacophony,
let the chaos batter me,
envelop me, drown me;

encompass me…

for a moment of escape...

But—

louder was the silence;

louder, the echoes
of your rejection
in my emptiness;

louder, the snap
of my heart
breaking.

Poem--Enkindled…

2005-06-02T02:14:00.000-06:00

Read your answer in my eyes;
Read!—that though I deny it
With every breath I draw
To myself and to you,
You have set my soul afire—
And like a figurine of wax,
I am melting into nothingness,
Yielding to your power…
What fire is this? I have poured
My tears as rain to quench it—
And it just more fiery grew!
I have wrung out
The life-blood from my heart
Drop-by-drop, to stifle it,
But like Ghee in fire, it blazed;
Then burn! I can fight no longer;
Consume me, engulf me…
Yet—how did Ice set such a fire?
But that it would yield to it too!

Poem--Spring, why did you pass my Garden by?

2005-06-02T02:06:00.000-06:00

Spring, why did you pass my Garden by?

When you spread your cloak of Morning Dew,
And touched each bud with your Life-breath,
Why did you let the frost chill these buds
And blight their blossom dreams?

When you woke the sleeping seeds
And led them skyward from the ground,
Why did you forget to call to Life
These seedlings, until their time was past?

When you brought sunshine to tease the fruits
Who colored with a rosy blush,
Why did you ignore a waiting few,
Now embittered by futile hopes?

When you kissed each flower with maternal love,
And led to them, the courting bees
Why these, you passed with step-motherly haste
And let worms ravage their tenderness?

You wept an April shower of grief
When Summer scorched your flowers and trees
Why did your loving tears not touch
With comfort, this barren land, Life-Mother?

O Spring, why? Why do you let Winter reign
Unhindered in the garden of my Dreams?

Poem--He is…

2005-05-31T22:45:00.000-06:00

Like some fallen Eaglet—
Wounded, yet unbeaten, unbroken…
Spirited—fire in his eye!
Denying his need for a tender touch
To heal the festered wounds of Fate—
A Fighter—a prince of the sky…

Like some touching melody
Soothing, tender: a tune
Unconsciously hum, in solitude;
Simple, yet, vibrant…alive!
Echoing in my heart—
A song of Hope or Tears?

Like some cryptic Oracle:
All-knowing—an uncanny wisdom,
Stripping away every veil, every mask—
Revealing myself to me—the naked face;
Each word as a resounding incantation:
A truth I knew, yet did not know…

Like some delicate fragrance
Sans source, sans direction…
A haunting, elusive presence—
A hint, a waft in every breath…
Pervading my consciousness:
Around me? Within me?

As fragrance, as instinct, music or thought,
No sense unaware—or un-subdued…
Omnipresent—yet constantly awaited…
Conquered, I know nothing but You…
Yet, my Love—Do I know You?
Or, more truly, do I know you as Mine?

Poem--You...

2005-05-31T22:30:00.000-06:00

You are—

The stone, shattering my illusions:
Image upon image, like mirrors
Splintering into glistening fragments…

Harsh, yet beautiful,
Piercing, yet alluring—
You are Reality…

You are—
The tempest, wrecking my tranquility
As a fallen leaf upon the ground,
Sweeping me up into its eye…

Wild, yet freeing…
Exhausting, yet exhilarating—
You are Destiny…

You are—

The fire destroying my fantasies—
Fragile, brittle delusions
Shriveling into ashes and dust…

Brilliant, yet consuming,
Engulfing, yet scorching,
You are Truth…

Must I curse you
Or bless you
For freeing me from Myself?

Must I hate you
Or love you
For rousing me to Life?

Short story--Packing Cases

2005-05-30T22:09:00.000-06:00

Packing cases. All covered, and taped shut, and numbered. Her name and Indian address on it written in a bold, harsh blue.

She didn’t like the colour. It was too intrusive.

She fingered her name on the nearest carton absently. Her home of eighteen years looked unfamiliar and strange, invaded by the packing cases, and the loud-voiced packers, who were paid to rip her home apart. She paused to listen to the banging and hammering, and tearing, and the snipping of tape; the incessant groaning and creaking of furniture being emptied and taken apart. The carton marked ten had been her bed—before it had become a pile of flat boards, bound and marked. The case next to it was her study table—where she had first learned to read, and to write—and gone on to love doing both. It had been the most special place in the house for her—where she had lived many fantasies in the books she had read, and created many of her own with the magic of her pen. She stared at the awkwardly shaped crate, and traced with her toe, the depression on the carpet where it had lain for as long as she could remember.

The room looked naked to her eyes—so unlike her own beloved room. She looked at it, and then closed her eyes. She could see it then as it had once been; the light stealing through the curtains in playful beams, dancing upon her bed, the shelf with her beloved books in a cosy corner, her table just by the window…

Sudden tears stung the back of her eyes, and she admonished herself. ”There’s nothing to cry about…I always knew I would have to leave one day…” But it doesn’t make leaving any easier, she thought, silently. It doesn’t make it less hard to let go… She went to the window, stripped bare of the heavy curtains, almost too bright in the blazing desert afternoon. Saudi Arabia was a harsh place; summers were blazingly hot; winters were chilling. Staring out at the large looming buildings, the whizzing cars, the streetlights, and the shops, her eyes blurred with sudden tears. “It isn’t even a pretty sight”, she reflected, with a sudden urge to laugh. But it was dear to her—it was the sight she had always seen; it was the view from her window. “Not anymore…not ever again.” She sank down to the floor and hugged her knees, feeling lonely and lost.

Just then, one of the packers came in. She rose in angry confusion, blinking furiously. Then she strode out, after one look as he unscrewed the air conditioner from the wall. She rushed to the sitting room, then the other rooms one by one, finding none that were unoccupied by those strange, shouting men. Feeling irrationally angry and irritated, she went to the front door and opened it, then went to the adjacent flat and knocked softly. A lady opened the door, and smiled at her.

“Come in, dearie”, she said. “You must be tired of all that bustle and packing!”

“I am OK, Aunty.”

"Is it all set when you are to go?"

"I think the flight is tomorrow night."

"Shall I get you something to eat? Have lunch …"

She began in protest…but let it pass. It was no use anyway. The motherly lady was already going to the kitchen. She remembered practically living in this house—they were such good friends with their neighbours! They were like an extended family that she had learnt to love almost as much as her own. They were leaving them as well…"It's for the best…” she told herself. After all, she was going to their homeland…Going back home. Yet, right now, this felt like home…this flat with the memories of her childhood…the buildings, the desert that had become this huge city; the carefully pruned, artificial-looking trees; the black-and-white robed people, this whole atmosphere…A gilded cage, she had once called it; and it was…but it was a cage she loved, because she had never known anywhere else.

She smiled at Aunty, who had come in with the lunch, and they began to talk of the packing, the documents to be prepared, the plans they had made for the future…She had a strange feeling of being in a dream…as if she would wake up and find that it had all been unreal…that the flat was still furnished…that they were not going anywhere…

She went back to her flat after that. Her father had returned with the exit papers. They were leaving the next day. That night all their friends and relatives…their own private community would gather in the flat to bid them farewell…It was over…their self-imposed exile of nearly twenty two years. Her own whole life of eighteen years. Everything was changing…changed.

And in a day, she had changed too. Her childhood had been packed, and set aside…

The packing was almost complete. Most of the rooms were bare. Her voice echoed weirdly when she talked…there was a mournful tone to it. "It is the spirit of this home…mourning our leaving…" she thought to herself…and laughed. What fanciful thoughts!

The container of the ship that all this was to be sent in, was already waiting. The packing cases were carried away one by one and then, they were alone in the flat…an empty shell of what had been their home…

Waiting for the end…and then the beginning…

Poem-The Whisper of the Little Mermaid*

2005-05-29T21:54:00.000-06:00

The waves beckon; it is Time to yield
To the mighty embrace of my Mother,
The Sea—
To blend with the foam upon her crest…

It is a Destiny I accept: the price
Of a chance I had to take…

For you, my Love, I chose —

The ceaseless Silence that lies heavily
Upon my throat…
My soul’s voice hushed forever…

To dance upon swords and stones;
Each footstep, Agony
And yet Ecstasy: to see your smile…

Estrangement from my home and kin;
Ignoring plaintive pleas
Echoing in the waves and storms…

To embrace the aching sorrow
Of being loved—
And yet not being loved best…

For you, my Love—again
This last choice I must make:
My Death, above Redemption…

The unshed tears of a Lifetime
Bound by the curse of tearless eyes
Will be freed into the boundless Sea…

And the Wind and Waves shall mourn
How little you ever knew, My Prince,
How deeply I Loved You…

*Inspired by the story “TheLittle Mermaid” by Hans ChristianAndersen. The little mermaid in the story falls in love with a human Prince, and sacrifices her lovely voice for a pair of feet—feet that pierce her like knives at every step. The sea-witch who helps her tells her that if the prince falls in love with her and loves her above anyone else, she would become human, and have an immortal soul. If not, on the day he marries someone else, she would die and dissolve into the foam upon the Sea. The Prince, though he loves his mute “little page” dearly, is in love with a beautiful princess. On the eve of his marriage, the mermaid’s sisters come to her with a knife and tell her that if she can drive the knife through the prince’s heart, she would become a mermaid again and could return to the Sea. To read the whole story, go to http://hca.gilead.org.il/li_merma.html

Poem--My Forever Valentine...

2005-05-29T21:46:00.000-06:00

Unseen, yet seen; unknown, yet known…
Stranger, who are you
That I recognise with a deeper eye?

I have felt you in the ocean—
Restless and deep, powerful and endless;
Mysterious and boundless in wisdom;
The surging tides of your thoughts
Breaking as mighty waves,
Wearing away the knurled rocks of narrow-mindedness;
Forever changing, forever unchanging…

I have sensed you in the eagle,
Untamed, untameable; the free soul…
Keen and wild; a leader, a king;
Fearless, soaring miles above;
A mind sharpened by intellect,
Relentless in its quest
For its goal.

I have heard your laughter
In the gushing melody of birds,
Breaking the stillness of the morning air…
Sweeter than music, entrancing in tone,
Evoking a thrill in every heart.

I have heard the echo of your voice—
In the song of the river,
Cascading over the rocks;
In the whisper of the trees,
Fluttering with the swirling wind;
In the velvet strains of the violin,
It's bow, upon heartstrings, drawn.

I have seen your image
In the first glow of dawn;
Your shadow, in the moonless night;
I have seen you, as the tree,
Forever generous, forever giving;
I have sensed your tenderness
In the touch of a rose petal;
I have thrilled to your caress—
The wind's fingers through my hair…
In thunder, I saw your anger;
In clouds, your unshed tears.

And, yes—I have felt you in me…
In my yearning, my longing;
In the emptiness, the void
That you alone can fill truly;
In the warmth and ardour
That thoughts of you radiate…
In the hope with which my heart
Has kept alight a lamp of love.

Stranger, you are my own—
As I am yours…
Ageless and beyond time,
You have been with me:
Less than a memory,
More than a thought—
My soul's Forever Valentine,
I await you...

Poem--My Piper's Call...

2005-05-26T22:18:00.000-06:00

Your Magic has cast its spell—
You are my Piper, and your tunes
Draw me deeper into your enchantment:
Your flute is piping forth my dreams…
The lilting melodies sift through my heart
Reviving forgotten hopes and lost prayers…
Your enigmatic eyes promise me happiness:
Happiness and a world of Love…
My heart has succumbed to your charm, Piper—
Yet why does my mind hold me back?
What confidence have I in you—
A stranger piping haunting melodies?
Which world is this that I will have?
Shall I follow you to my doom?
What shall I find in Love's surrender—
Joy or Pain? What must I believe?
I fear that I may hesitate too long
And lose the magical trail to your heart…
I fear that I may follow too soon
And find that I never knew it at all…
Whichever I do, I dread finding
In my mind or heart, the conviction
That the other path was the true…
Torn between Reason and Sentiment
Should I follow my Mind or my Heart?

This poem is based on the story of the Pied Piper of Hamelin… The legend of a piper who can pipe mysterious melodies that speak of wonderful things; that make you want to follow him wherever he leads…

Poem--Do you remember?

2005-05-25T22:03:00.000-06:00

Do you remember the day I spoke of my dreams?
You laughed at the childish fantasies,
Advised me to get practical,
Give up silly expectations,
Stop building castles,
Be realistic.
I thought I was going blind
But it was only my dreams dying
Leaving me little to hope for…

Do you remember the day I planted a flower?
You told me not to waste time,
That the soil was too dry,
The sun too hot, the world too uncaring;
That there was no time
For trivialities.
It turned out you were right:
I never watered that flower,
I simply watched it dry away…

Do you remember the day I opened my heart to you?
You told me it was not right:
The way I felt, the things I did;
That it was better to do things another way,
That I made too many assumptions,
I believed too much.
I never was too innocent again,
Never took people on trust or faith;
I’d lost faith in the world—and myself…

Do you remember the day I took your hand?
You promised me the world and the stars,
And set out to bring them,
As if I had asked for them,
When all I had wanted
Was your time.
I waited at the window every day,
Waiting for you to come back
Until I forgot what I was waiting for.

Today, I let go: of Life, of you…
And I see your eyes ask me--Why?
And I have no way to reply:
I had no reason to hold on…

Poem--Forgetting…

2005-05-25T21:00:00.000-06:00

Pain it was to lose you…
To lose the image you were to me—
For, your reality was never mine
To know, or to cherish…
Pain it was to watch dreams crumble
Though I had known it would;
To stop hoping, wishing…
To numb all feeling
For fear of feeling too much…
Pain it was to realize
I’d known how it would end,
And yet tread on a trail of thorns
To nowhere…

But greater pain it is, to accept—To know,
That this tunnel of darkness has an end…
To feel the ache a little less intensely;
To see your image slowly blur
In my mind’s eye…
To know that this will cease to be
A living, breathing part
Of my existence..
To watch Time heal the wounds
That Fate inflicted upon my heart…

Greater pain it is, that Pain itself
Hurts less than it hurt me before…
Greater pain it is…to forget…

Poem--Anticipation...

2005-05-24T23:33:00.000-06:00

The paper is parched and dry—
Drought -stricken, barren…blank;
Waiting…

The outpour…the downpour,
The monsoon of my cloud-laden heart,
The deluge of pent-up emotions…
Heavy grey clouds hovering,
With the burden of tears held back,
Of fears unexpressed; and loneliness;
Of laughter suppressed, and thoughts,
Of dreams unshared, and hopes,
Of reality experienced, and disappointment,
Of the perception of unknown powers…
Of Love, overwhelming, possessing…
Spirited, passionate, tempestuous,
Uncontained by frail strings of words…
Seeking expression, seeking voice—
Seeking outlet…

And yet, the paper lies unblemished,
The Muse eludes me…
The mountain breeze of inspiration
Has yet to touch the clouds
With the blessing of Release…
And my heart is silent,
With the apparent calm
Before the approaching Tempest…

Short Story- The Lines of Destiny

2005-05-23T21:01:00.000-06:00

Ten years!! What a lot changes in ten years! It was the re-union of the class of ’93—and what a gathering it was! Familiar faces, yet unfamiliar…the room resounded with exclamations:
“Is that you??? Oh you have changed so much…”
“What are you doing now? Really? Oh, that’s wonderful….”
“Do you remember…?”
“You mean you are…”
I stood at the entrance a minute, trying to locate someone I knew. A waving hand caught my attention. “Hey Renu!!” It was Smitha, my old roommate. I waved back, smiling, and walked towards her.
“Hey you haven’t changed a bit!! How are you doing? I haven’t heard from you since I got married”
“Great to see you, yaar! I’m fine…This is your husband?”
“Oops, I forgot the introductions. Meet my husband Raj. Raj, this is Renu, our once-upon-a-time hostel astrologer and palmist. And Renu, these are Anu and Shruthi—the two boys you predicted I would have!!” Smitha laughed. I blushed as I looked down at an adorable pair of twin girls.
“Do you still read palms?”
I shook my head. “Not after what happened with Reshma”.
“Reshma…Our Miss Old Fashioned? What happened with her?” Smitha asked.
“Didn’t you hear?”

*******************
It was during my graduation that I really gained a reputation as an amateur Palmist. Astrology was one of my loves—I was still in school when my cousin had gifted me “Chiero’s Book of Astrology and Palmistry”—and from that day, I had been hooked.
”Astrology”, he had told me,” is a valuable hobby. Go into any gathering and mention casually that you can read palms—and every hand in the room will be placed before you. It is a great way to get to know people.”

I had found that he was right.

Half believing, half laughing at the whole concept, armed with a smattering of Chiero and some lesser known palmists, I had become a rather popular amateur.

In the hostel, I charged a bon-bon or some similar tidbit for consultation: I operated on the condition that my “clients” did not really take me seriously; that it was just an interesting form of entertainment; that I did not believe in it, and neither must they. And on this condition, many classmates and hostel mates got a candy worth of predictions that my head could conjure with the criss-crosses on their palms. I was as faithful to my guidebooks as my memory permitted, and it gave all of us many hours of fun.

Reshma was a classmate, and one of my good friends. From a high-class once-royal family, she was to us, the epitome of traditionalism. Her caste, especially her family, still retained the remnants of aristocracy and the caste system—they practiced their traditions religiously and protected their way of life with a zeal that bordered on obsession. They never married outside their caste, and when an odd rebellious youngster challenged their ways, he was declared an outcaste, and disowned by community and family alike. And what a scandal there was! It was considered an eternal blot upon the family honour, and all future generations burdened with the shame of this betrayal of caste and birth.

Reshma loyally defended their ways and practiced them; and landed the nickname of Miss Old Fashioned. She accepted the nickname with a smile, and a shrug. “It’s part of who I am, and I cant change that”, she used to say. While we sported the modern jeans and wore our short-tops, she stuck valiantly to her half sari, declaring that her grandmother, “Lakshmikuttiamma Thamburatti”, the head of her matriarchal family and the reigning Princess of the county, would die of shock if she ever caught her wearing jeans. She woke up in the wee hours of dawn while we were still snoring away, to perform her ablutions and morning prayers. And she regaled us with tales of her home, a old-fashioned palace, and the ceremonies and rituals of royalty. And we always listened in fascinated interest.

“My turn!” She stretched her palm towards me , one evening in my room as I was busy playing astrologer, while my roommates acted as my assistants, collecting my chocolate fee and distributing them around.

“My daughter, place your dakshina upon my palm”, I replied in my best manner.

She giggled at my accent and places a bar of chocolate in my hand. I passed it to my roommates and bade her sit down.

“Well daughter …Hmmm…” I frowned and examined her palm. “Unusual success will mark your way, my dear. Fate smiles kindly upon you. I foresee a career reaching positions of authority and power.” I traced her Fate line meditatively. “Hmm…Unusually gifted. Long life…You will live to see your granddaughter’s marriage”, I told her as she giggled again.

“Not grandson’s?” she pouted in mock sadness.

“Hmmm, what an unusual Heart-line...!” I said. It was an unusual line. “Daughter, it is written here that you will have a love marriage—hmmm….strange, strange indeed. I see signs of an elopement and great opposition from your family…”

She pulled her hand away and gave me a friendly push. “Stop pulling my leg, Renu. You know that’s impossible! Me? A love marriage? Say something believable! We don’t even get to see the people we marry…!! And you expect your Miss old-Fashioned to find someone to elope with?” she laughed.

“But my daughter!” I said with mock seriousness, “It is—what shall I say—your Destiny! It has been written by Fate upon your hand!!”

She hit me over the head with a pillow.

Many months later, towards the end of our graduation, someone jerked me awake in the middle of the night and shone a night lamp into my groggy eyes.

“Hey Renu, get up!!” a voice whispered urgently. I blinked crazily and squinted, trying to get my thoughts together. It was Reshma. She had a worried frown and looked like she hadn’t slept at all.

“Read my palm!”, she said, holding out her hand.

“ Are you out of your mind? What time is it?” I asked, astounded.

“It’s about half past two in the morning.” She sat down on the bed by my side. “Please, Renu. I’m serious. Read my palm!”

“Reshma, this is crazy. What do you want with that crap at this hour?” I asked, shaking my head in disbelief.

“Never mind that. Please….” she begged.

“It’s not real, you know that. I don’t know this seriously. What is with you?” I was getting worried. She was obviously dead serious. “And I have already read it—I don’t even know if I say the same things when I read it the second time!!“

“Yes—but I want you to read it again. Please, Renu…It’s important!”

I shook my head in amazement and gave in. I peered at her hand and told her the same stuff all over again. Fate line, Head line, Life line, Heart line. Long Marriage line, cut by a line from the mount of mercury. By-line joining the Fate line Cross on the mount of Jupiter. Trident of Neptune on the mount of Mercury. Success in life. Brilliant career. Great and passionate love. Parental opposition. Likely elopement.

She sighed heavily and sat back in her chair when I finished.

“Now, explain!” I demanded.

“For three hours after dinner, I was on the phone with my mother. She was convinced that I was about to elope with someone. She begged me not to bring her, Appa, and my sisters to shame. Try as I might, I had no success in convincing her that I had no such intentions…”

“Oh Heavens! What in the world gave her such an idea?” I asked, feeling absurdly like bursting into laughter as the image of Reshma eloping in her half-sari came to mind.

“Apparently, the new astrologer in town.”, she said with a wry smile. “Supposedly a very young man with a lot of divine power and the special blessing of the Goddess. My mother went to him with my horoscope to consult about my marriage.” She bit her lips and frowned. “Why I got you up in the middle of the night for was this. He told her, almost exactly, word for word”—she looked at me—“what you told me. And he said that it was -- inevitable Destiny!”

“That’s crap!!” I snapped. “It’s a silly co-incidence. You know I didn’t mean it.”

“I know only that my mother refuses to let me out of her sight now. She has ordered me to pack up and go home by the morning train. If I can convince her to let me come and write my exams, I will be lucky”

“But if you don’t, you won’t get the degree!!” I was aghast!!

“Well, as you would say, perhaps that too is my Destiny. Though I think the part about a brilliant career would have to be scrubbed out!!” Her tone was decidedly bitter.

.We did not see Reshma for the rest of the year. She did write her exams though, under the strict surveillance of her family. When I met her at the University, she told me her marriage had been fixed with a distant cousin sought out by her parents, a highly placed government official. She seemed to have no objection to the arrangement.

“At least the nightmare of their continual expectation of my elopement is over. And as far as I know, my fiancé seems a nice person.. We were not allowed to meet, of course, but I have spoken to him over the phone and he seemed OK” She smiled. “When I told him about my mother’s astrological scare, he laughed and said he did not believe in such things.”

“Are you happy?” I asked. She blinked. “I guess…”, she said, her tone non-committal.

“Well, you’ve beaten both Astrology and Palmistry. I hope your mother is happy now!” I laughed.

“She is still insisting that I got to that new astrologer and take his blessings and do some sort of Puja to pacify the Goddess for defying my Destiny…” she laughed. “Best to humor her, anyway, now that things have settled down. Do come for the wedding. It’s to be with only close family, so I am not inviting anyone else, but I do want you to come.”

I promised her I would be there.

And then, a week before the wedding day, came the news—to my shock and consternation—that she had disappeared…Eloped, leaving a note to explain that—Well, it was after all, Destiny!!

******************
“That killed my love of astrology” I concluded my tale. Smitha stared at me wide eyed.

“She actually eloped? Reshma? I can’t believe it!” She shook her head in amazement. “Who was the guy?”

I smiled.

“She… ran away with …er…the Astrologer.

Poem--Sita

2005-05-22T22:20:00.000-06:00

My Lord, My Love; Thy summons I have obeyed—
Is it Thy will that I burn again upon a Pyre?
Another test by Fire to prove my Sanctity
When the anguish of thy suspicion
Unrelenting, burns yet in my heart?

Should the Gods again stand testimony
To the steadfastness of my Love for Thee?
Has Thy Name ever wavered upon my lips?
Though long years of hardship and exile,
Have I once reproached thee? Has there been
A moment when I have not worshipped Thee
With all that I am, heart, body and soul?

And yet Thou demands, yet again
Proof of my devotion! Is this justice , Lord?
Will Thou treat the meanest of thy people
As Thou treats thy Queen? Is this
But a woman’s eternal Destiny: that queen or beggar,
She must stand trial for wrongs
Not of her doing? Why do thy hands tremble?
Why will Thou not meet my eyes?

I see the knowledge of my Innocence
Rankle in Thy eyes; Thy Pain pierces me
Greater than my own—I shall not reproach Thee;
Thou art a King , a Righteous Sovereign
Before Thou art my Lord and Husband;
I shall not be cause for Thee
To waver or falter in Thy royal Duty.

Know Thee that tongues can never be silenced:
There will always be one man or another,
Unconvinced; one voice asking for another pyre;
Will Thou have me burn each time?
Forgive me, my beloved, my Lord—
I am weary; weary of this cruel Destiny.

Let all end with this! Mother, embrace me!
Let me lie again upon Thy Lap,
Unburdened of all Trials and cares;
Earth, Thy daughter pleads with Thee—
Prove Thou my innocence, once more, for ever more,
And let me come Home to Thee!

*Background story: In the Ramayana, after Ravana is defeated, Sita, who was the cause for the war is rescued. But Rama demanded proof of her chastity after staying so long in Lanka. Then came the famous Agni Pareeksha—the test by fire; Site entered a pyre that was set aflame ; and the Agni deva did not touch her; He appeared and declared her purity. Rama received her back happily and returned to Ayodhya in triumph.

The Ramayana however does not end here. After his return to Ayodhya, one night, Rama leaves the Palace to find out what is happening in the city …Rama overhears a conversation between a man and his wife that he is not a man like Rama to keep a wife as Rama did! In humiliation and sorrow, to uphold the Raja Dharma, where the ruler must be beyond reproach, Rama orders Lakshmana to seize Sita for execution. But as Sita is well into her pregnancy, she is abandoned in the forest (where Valmiki lives). Valmiki receives Sita in his ashram and offers her shelter, and she stays there for many years , bringing up her children , Luv and Kush . Valmiki teaches them the “royal” arts and also the Ramayana.

When Rama decides to perform the great Ashwamedha yagnam, Rama’s sons, Luv and Kush stops the sacrificial Horse in the forest and is brought to court. The story of the Ramayana they sing moves the king and his people to tears; Rama summons Sita to Ayodhya again—to once more declare her innocence to the people and lay all doubts to rest, that she may return to the palace. Sita does return, and in presence of Rama and the people, she requests the Earth to take her if she is innocent. As soon as these words are uttered, the Earth stretches out and welcomes Sita while the gods cry out her praises.

I have tried to protray her emotions at that moment when she is asked to prove her innocence.
This is purely a personal perception.

Poem--On a Rainy Morning

2005-05-22T21:55:00.000-06:00

The clime reflects my dreary life;
Nature with me seems to sympathise
And the elements, my woe to share.

The heavens know my heavy heart:
They are pouring forth the unshed tears
That lie lumped within my throat.

The clouds have spread a cloak of grey,
Hiding the bright glow of the day,
To match the darkness in my heart.

The winds are shrieking as my voice,
Though silence locks and chains my lips,
For the anguish in my soul.

The tempest raging all around
Making the earth shudder with thunder loud
Can but compare to the storm within.

Yet, as the rains bring life to earth,
Cleansing the air of dust and dirt,
Thus shall sorrow make me strong.

So when the clouds are blown away,
The sun harkens another day,
Wiser, stronger, I'll begin again.

Short Story - In Betweens...

2005-05-20T04:09:00.000-06:00

As I alighted from the bus, I glanced at the watch. Almost half past seven. I looked expectantly towards the apartment just across the road where the wide gate offered me a good view of an ancient-looking house. Yes! I watched a teenaged girl dressed gracefully in a cotton sari come up to the open porch with a lighted lamp, chanting the evening prayer. An old couple followed her with palms clasped devoutly. As the girl kneeled down, the old lady arranged the cushions on the settee for her husband to sit, while he carried for her, the Holy books that were too heavy for her to lift. He smiled gently as he handed her the reading glasses and seated her by him.

I smiled involuntarily. Every evening, I wait for this little tableau before starting on my walk home.

I started to walk down the mud path to the right of the road. It’s a little longer than by the road, but I have some trysts I have to keep. I stopped a little way away from a tiny cottage at the corner, hidden by the banyan tree. The cottage badly needed a coat of paint. The right-most window was cracked, and the gate was almost falling off the hinges. But the young man who alighted from his motorbike in front of the cottage five minutes later looked at it as if it were Paradise. The door opened almost as soon as he reached the gate and his fresh-faced little bride ran out to meet him, her face aglow with a sweet smile-- just as she did every day.

I suppressed a sigh and walked on.

I stopped by the bakery and the baker smiled at me and nodded –“yes”. I paid him for some buns. “God bless you, daughter” he said. I smiled.

I stood by the bakery door and watched the lady on the corner platform. She did not beg, like the street urchins around her, or sell any wares, like the hawkers on either side of the street. In her rags, she sat huddled, watching the road keenly. At each passerby, she stared for a moment with her searching eyes, in eager anticipation; and then turned away in disappointment. Everyone in the neighborhood knew her story. She was a widow, and her only son, a young boy, had joined the army a year ago. After his training had been completed, he had sent her a telegram from his training camp saying he would be home the next day. The bus he was on, overturned into a flooded river, and his body was never recovered.

Since that day, the lady had never left that platform, and neither force nor persuasion could drag her from her seat. And it seemed cruelty to drag her away…She was waiting for her son to come home. The baker used to feed her some buns every day—she would have died of starvation if he had not, poor woman—but he, with a large and growing family of his own, could ill afford charity. So everyday, I paid him for his buns, and he gave them to the old lady with the searching eyes.

I started off again. Towards the right was a road where I could hear the two ‘wall girls’. This was a curious arrangement that only childhood would have devised. The two houses were adjacent to each other, but opened out to parallel roads--so that the back doors of the houses faced each other. And in the two houses lived two bosom friends of about five or six. Not being permitted out of their respective houses at that late hour, they often conducted extended conversations by shouting from their respective windows. I—and half the neighborhood—often eavesdrop on their conversation, which cover a wide range of topics, including disliked teachers, sick dogs and pregnant mummies. I heard them as I passed by.
“My Mama says I have to go and stay with Aunty when she goes to the hospital to have the baby out.” She seemed to feel it was something like having a tooth out. I stifled a laugh.
“Our baby is such a pain, though everyone says she’s so cute. She sleeps all day and cries all night. I es…es…espekt yours will too. Daddy says it hasn’t yet figured out which is day and which is night. Imagine that!!”

Happy innocence! What did they care that half the world was listening to them?

I was almost in sight of my destination. Even in sight of it, I turned to a little road on the left and walked a little way. From behind another tree, I could see a little balcony. Under the light, a middle-aged gentleman sat reading the paper. A sweet-faced lady, his wife, was braiding the long tresses of her young daughter sitting at her feet with maternal care. I could almost read the mother’s dreaming face…”She is growing so fast. Soon she will have to be married. Will her husband take good care of her? She is so innocent and young…” Her hand passed over her daughter’s head in a gentle caress. The girl looked up at her with a smile, kissed her work-worn hands, and leaned her head on her lap. Her father looked at the pair over his paper and smiled.

I sighed again and walked back down the road. I was at the gate of the only home I had ever known. The Orphanage and the Working girls Home stood side-by-side. The Orphanage had fed me, sheltered me, educated me and raised me to proud independence from charity. When I got a job, I had moved to the Home.

As I walked into my room, my roommate glanced at the time and shook her head.
“Walked again? Why don’t you hire a rickshaw?”

“And miss my walk? Not a chance!” I replied.

Poem--Quagmire…*

2005-05-19T08:37:00.000-06:00

Why is it that when my dreams shatter,
A few bitter tears wash away
The ashes, the dust into the emptiness
Of Oblivion—
But when the broken dream is yours,
A deluge of my tears
Still fail to alleviate
The agony in my heart?

Why is it that when my pride
Is wounded—when I must kneel
To beg; when I am humbled—
My heart is bruised and sore;
But when your pride is smote
By so much as a thorn,
It is as if my heart
Is set afire?

Why is it that when I fail,
When my toil is in vain
And success slips away from my grasp,
My heart is clouded in disappointment;
Yet when you gain an atom less
Than what you sought,
The darkness of disappointment
Is as the blackest night?

Why is it that when fickle Luck
At some moment, smiles at me
And good fortune comes my way,
A brilliant hue colours my heart—
But when Luck gazes upon you,
And the good fortune is yours,
It is as if my heart is draped
In a thousand rainbows?

Why is it that your dreams,
Your sorrows, your pride, your joys,
Your success or failure, your gain or loss,
Means more to me than my own?
Why is it that my heart is bound
To laugh or weep, to want, to long—
To feel with you? Why so—
When I am, and shall forever be
A stranger to you, and you to me?

*Quagmire- a soft wet area of low-lying land that sinks underfoot; also used to mean a difficult or precarious situation; a predicament.

Short sketch - The Heart of the Machine

2005-05-19T04:31:00.000-06:00

Dr.Johnson had a reputation among us medicos (medical students)-- He was called the Machine. His thick brows were always knit in an angry frown; his eagle eyes detected any small slip we made with merciless accuracy. His speech was clipped; his comments, sharp and cutting. On rounds with him, I often wondered at his remarkably emotionless tone while explaining many of the patients' conditions; often terminal. "Spine damage. Probably will never regain complete use of either of his legs." "Blinded for life." "No chance of survival" He pronounced his verdict calmly. I wondered how a doctor, reputedly the best neurologist in the country, could be so heartless.

"Come with me". His frown deepened as he banged the phone and gave me a curt nod. He walked briskly out of the room without waiting for me. I ran behind him, barely catching up.

Emergency case. Even as we approached, I could hear the hysterical wails coming from the Trauma section. It was a child, barely four or five.” Fell out the window”, a nurse whispered to me. Two nurses were trying to restrain the mother who seemed to have gone out of her mind in shock. She shrieked as the nurses tried to wheel the child to the OT.

"Get her out. NOW!". Dr. Johnson's voice was like a gunshot in that room. He was gone before the nurses could react. "A-s-s" the nurse mouthed as she tried to comfort the mother. I rushed to the OT.

For the next three hours, I watched the most skilled fingers in the country as the Doc silently operated on the child. Except for some barked out commands that I obeyed without a word, I watched fascinated. The tightly clenched jaws of the doc told me the kid was in trouble long before the monitors in the room began to beep frantically. The doc shook his head. "I've lost her" he said shortly, his tone as emotionless as ever. He turned to the basin to wash his hands.

But not before I had seen the anguished tears in his eyes. As the nurses and I walked out of the theatre, I turned to see the doc pass his hand thru the child's hair tenderly. I saw his lips move. ""I'm sorry." I turned away, tears pricking my own eyes.

Poem-- A Woman's Heart...

2005-05-19T04:06:00.000-06:00

In the heart of a typhoon
lies an eye of calm,
In the hot, blazing fire
is a centre that’s cool
As in the darkness of sorrow
is the twinkle of hope,
As in the soul of a mortal
lives God.

The serene river flowing
hides a current of power,
The earth that we walk on
has a core of liquid fire,
Like the mild face of Love
with its ardour unseen,
Like the courage that’s latent
in Faith.

God made these small secrets,
then put them in one:
The fire and the ice,
the current and the storm,
The courage and the hope,
the faith and the love:
He created a great mystery—
a woman’s heart.

Poem--Sacrifice

2005-05-19T00:29:00.000-06:00

With the desperate precision,
And the deadly accuracy
With which a surgeon would amputate
His own limb –
Knowing it cannot be saved…

With the resolute calm,
And the resigned acceptance
With which a musician would accept
His loss of hearing—
Knowing it to be but Destiny…

With the glazed certainty,
And the numbness of inevitability
With which a soldier would march
Into a raging battle field,
Knowing that Death awaited…

With the serene smile,
And the unshaken demeanor
With which a nurse would serve
Those dying of Disease,
Knowing that it had conquered her too...

On Love's own altar, at the hands of Fate,
Thus shall love be sacrificed!

Poem--Teach Me True Love...

2005-05-18T23:21:00.000-06:00

Take from me the selfishness
That would keep you chained to me;
Give me the courage to set you free,
Knowing that it is in your freedom,
And not your bondage
That I shall gain what I seek.
The chain would wring that delicate bond
And wrench that loving heart…

Take from me the reluctance and fear
That keep me from you:
Give me the courage to trust in you
And in what we share
Enough to dispel all fears of losing you,
And break the cage of shyness,
To tell you that I do care—a lot!

Take from me my self-doubt;
Because it makes me miserable
And builds a wall around me
That you cannot penetrate…
I don’t want to build walls
That divide us in any way;

Take from me the jealousy
Created by my imagination and fear:
That is my doing—not yours;
Yet it hurts both you and me…
I love you; I would not hurt you
For anything in the world.

Give me the confidence I seek:
That I am not asking too much
In wanting your love…
That I am not giving too little:
My own heart-full of affection…
That you love me for what I am:
For myself—and inspite of myself.

This is the voice that cries out
Both from the depths of despair,
And from the throes of joy…
For, human as I am, I cannot help
The way I feel, foolish though it may be;
My only thirst is the thirst
Of every human heart for love.

Short-Story- Two Letters

2005-05-18T08:13:00.000-06:00

It was the morning after the battle. The silvery rays of dawn fell upon the bodies lying scattered in the aftermath of the fight. The morning papers all around the nation must be declaring that it was a glorious battle, and a great victory.

It is a strange place—“No Man’s land”. With all the arrogance of man who claims to own the earth, here was one strip that had been declared free of that bondage. Yet, scarred by the landmines and splattered with blood, it had been ravaged by both countries it lay between.

As I walked, I saw two soldiers who had apparently stuck each other a mortal blow and died falling upon each other. One arm boldly showing the insignia of Pakistan lay upon a shoulder marked with the crossed swords of an Indian army jawan. The land around them were covered in their blood…neither Indian blood, nor Pakistani…just human blood , draining away the dreams and hopes and love of two lives. As I kneeled beside them, I saw a bluish piece of paper jutting out of the pocket of the Indian jawan. With the characteristic curiosity of a reporter, I gently pulled it out. It was an inland letter, almost torn at the fold at constant reading and re-reading.

“My Dearest son…

May Ishwar keep you safe and well. How are you , my son? It is now three months since you have sent a letter. My old eyes are thirsting for a sight of you.

Your sister’s wedding has been fixed, but she is very stubborn, son. She insists that she will not get married without her Bhaiyya’s blessings. She is waiting to know when you will next come home. I have talked to the boy’s father, and he understands, but how long can we postpone it like that? The boy is very good, he is an Engineer and they have not even mentioned dowry. She is lucky to get such a match. But I feel very sad that my bulbul is going away…

Your son is now almost one year old now. He is walking a little and looks just like you when you were young. Bahu is very loving and takes good care of me and your mother. But she always looks sad and spends hours in the puja room praying. She is very worried at the trouble at the border. But she is always cheerful with your mother and never lets her hear anything about the trouble. You know your mother’s heart is very weak and the doctor has said she must not be anxious. Poor bahu, she never mentions her anxieties to anyone.

Your mother keeps asking about you. I tell her that the army is like that, he would be remembering us, but he will not get time to send a letter. He will probably come home very soon. But beta, do write to us when you can and let us know. Just send us a telegram if you cannot write a letter. When you come, we will have Choti’s wedding also.

I am fine, have some pain in my legs, but bahu has got me some medicines from the town. Otherwise, all is well at home

God bless you, my son.

Your loving Father.”

I was trembling as I finished reading... I carefully folded it and put it back in the soldier’s pocket. As I was about to walk away, I saw that the Pakistani soldier had something clutched tightly in his hand. Shaken though I was, something prompted me to gently disentangle his fingers and look at it. It was also—it appeared—a yellowed piece of paper, muddy and bloodied. I hesitated, but then gently opened it to see the delicate writing in Urdu.

Beloved husband,

Peace and blessing of Allah be upon you!

I have just completed my Namaz, and yet, my heart is heavy. How long it has been since you have come home! And along with that, the news from the border is always of trouble. May Allah keep you safe through it all.

Abbu is very unwell. I think it is because his heart is anxious that he has not heard anything from you. Please send him some message somehow. He is aged and his whole life is centred upon you. But he is very loving towards me and never allows me to do any housework; he always says that I should rest because of the baby. It is only 2 more months now, and the only time I have seen his eyes happy are when he thinks of his grandchild.

Ammi is fine, she prepares all sorts of things for me and says it is good for the baby. But in her eyes , I can see the worry as the news comes from the borders. The other day, Shareef Bhai’s nephew was brought home injured after a battle. His arm has been amputated. Allah! I can still hear the weeping of his mother. Abbu has been anxious since then. He keeps going to the mosque to offer special prayers.

Your brother is also intent upon joining the army. Abbu looks very sad when he says that. But you are his hero, and he keeps telling me, Bhabhijaan, my brother is so brave. Yes, I know, I tell him. But my heart is anxious, and I do the special prayers so that Allah may protect you. Who is there for us but you?

Please do send us a message soon. When will you come home next? God willing, will you come home to see when our baby is born?

Praying for you,

Your Loving Wife.

My eyes glazed as I looked upon the two bodies, lying upon each other.

I am not sure who had won this battle. But standing there, surrounded by the bodies of those past caring about the fortunes of war, it seemed to me too, an immaterial thing who had won. I was thinking about the families and loved ones of the dead, who had definitely lost…

Poem--Courage, I Seek

2005-05-18T07:21:00.000-06:00

Courage, I seek...
Courage to live and learn:
To defy what I know is wrong,
Though the world accepts blindly;
Unafraid to walk alone in the right,
Than in the crowd, but wrong…

Courage to think and believe
With the innate wisdom of the soul,
And without the shaky crutches
Of age old convention;
To put faith above the rituals
That shadow the purpose they serve!

Courage, to follow my ideals
Though temptation beckons back and fore
Offering pleasures I delight in,
And through the jeers and gibes
Of the many who wait and watch.

Courage to laugh and smile
With the unaffected heart of a child
Mirth unmarred by the worldliness
Of passing years.

Courage to hold but one staff—
That of truth and honesty,
Through a path narrow, and often thorny,
Yet, the only one straight;
To ignore the deceptive short-cuts
That lead me farther away.

Courage to look within
And see the imperfect “me”
To try and rub off my corners,
Than to search for another’s faults;
To accept my failures and mistakes
With humility, with grace:
To appreciate one superior sincerely
Without envy’s cruel sting.

Courage to accept myself,
Without the shells I grow;
To believe in my uniqueness,
And conquer the insecurity
That vanity and selfishness hide;
To break the fortress I’ve made,
And thus unprotected to stand—
To show the world unashamedly
The person I really am.

Courage to learn from my sorrows
To share another’s pain;
To love and give all in loving,
To defy all to stand by a friend;
To dare to trust unreservedly
And be vulnerable—yet, to risk that pain…
To forgive without bitterness,
Though ever unable to forget.

Courage to have true Faith,
To trust in Him without trepidation,
And see His countless miracles,
Unblinded by cynicism or fanatism;
To seek Him in Joy as in sorrow
To find Him in every day;
To accept, uncomplaining, all life brings
Believing His way as the best.

This courage I seek—
Not the courage that dares to kill;
Courage in order to be human,
With all the imperfections of one.
I know not the courage of warriors—
I do not seek to fight:
Teach me the courage to love others,
And the courage to love myself!

Poem--Jihad!

2005-05-18T06:43:00.000-06:00

Declare again, a Holy War--a Jihad; once more
Purge the earth of hypocrisy, and hypocrites:

They, who arm Faith with swords and guns;

They who wield God as a weapon
To spill innocent blood;

They, who desecrate every Faith of Humanity
Donning a purdah of false austerity;

They, who divide people by what name they revere;

They who reign as tyranny, unquestioned
By twisting the Truth and murdering Peace;

They who rend to shreds,
The delicate fabric of community,
Pulling out one string after another
Until a society, a people, disintegrates…

They who blindfold the ignorant,
Offer them knives and machetes,
And incite them to cut down, unseeing,
All who come before them…

They who pervert innocent minds,
Poison their hearts with the venom of Hate,
And hand them guns in place of books and toys;

They who set aflame cruel passions,
Unleash mindless violence and delirious hatred,
And tear apart every bond of amity…

Such belong not to any Faith--Disown them!!!
Against such enemies of all Humanity,
People of every Creed--Unite and declare "Jihad"!

A bloodless, simple war of Silence;
A war of single-minded protest;
A war of Peace--of Humanness;
Of Faith, of God--A war of Love!!!

Poem-Faith

2005-05-18T06:31:00.000-06:00

In everything I do, I am guided
By a compass within myself...

Not by the opinions of a decadent society
With a microscopic vision and mind;
Not by the reckless, value-less standards
Of imitation New-World attitudes...
Not by the rigid rules of a prescribed Faith
That have been obeyed before they were understood;
Not by the rebellious Godlessness
Of unlimited, unethical freedom.

I live by my standards.

Shaped by the Truth I have been taught to believe,
By what I have learnt and understood,
And beyond that, by what I know from within,
By the unexplainable instincts and intuitions,
Tuned to an inner voice that I choose to trust--
Above convention, above logic...
A Higher Being who holds my life secure;
Molded by a faith in Faith, a confidence
That great Confidence works great Miracles.

I trust completely; I love!

I do not answer to the world,
I do not aver that I am right;
I do not claim that I know the way;

I know only that I have chosen,
And I shall not retreat--
I cannot.

Buoyed by the conviction that those I love
Shall bless me, and not renounce me,
Even if the ways I choose are not
The ones they chose for me...
And trust that though my ways are separate,
My ideals are strong; they have made me strong--
And my ultimate destination
Is one they would have chosen

Or better.